


For Who Could Ever Learn

by trufflemores



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: AU, Angst, Beauty and the Beast, Drama, F/M, Family, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Slow Burn, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-06 16:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 100,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11603988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores/pseuds/trufflemores
Summary: "He fell into despair, and lost all hope -- for who could ever learn to love a Beast?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> French dictionary, for the most common phrases included in the fic.  
>  _Bonjour_ = Good day!
> 
>  _Ma chère_ = My dear, e.g. "my dear female friend."  
>  _Ma chérie_ = My darling, e.g. "my darling girlfriend/wife."
> 
>  _Mon cher_ = My dear, e.g. "my dear male friend."  
>  _Mon chéri_ = My darling, e.g. "my darling boyfriend/husband."
> 
>  _Mon amie_ = My female friend.  
>  _Mon ami_ = My male friend.
> 
>  _Mon amour_ = My love. (Universal, male or female.)
> 
>  _Belle_ = Beautiful.  
>  _Houblon_ = Hops.  
>  _Rouge_ = Red.  
>  _Dent_ = Tooth.  
>  _Griffe_ = Claw.
> 
>  _Mademoiselle_ = "Ma'am."  
>  _Monsieur_ = "Sir."  
>  _Messieurs_ = "Sirs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! Guess we're here. Let's see where this takes us, shall we?
> 
> Characters will be added to the list as they appear in the fic. We're starting in media res with a new, pre-movie scene with a near miss encounter. (This fic is a direct result of the new movie, but it will feature elements from both the live-action and animated movies.) Enjoy!

"She's _beautiful_."

The Beast rolls his eyes and puts his back to the open window. "I have eyes. Beauty isn't my thing."

Cisco sighs, hopping across the floor. " _Barry_ , my friend, can we entertain the notion that she could be _the one?_   Your life isn't the only one on the line." Extending his metal arms, he indicates, "I would rather not live the rest of mine as a candelabra."

"You think I wish to live like _this?"_ The Beast growls, turning to face him.

Cisco lifts his arms innocently. "Come, now. You used to be _charming_. The ladies loved you. What happened?"

"Women are all the same. I have no interest in them."

"If it was a gentleman you sought, why didn't you say so? I would've sent Cindy to fetch male suitors."

"None of us can leave the castle," The Beast reminds him, sitting back on his arched heels and facing the windows. "And it isn't her gender which upsets me."

"Then what? You wish for an eyesore?"

The Beast growls. "I wish to be _alone_."

"You chose the wrong castle, then," Caitlin says, sidling into view. "If you wanted to be left alone, you should have hired fewer hands." Swinging her clock hands, she adds, "Cisco's right. If you want to mope for eternity, that's your prerogative, but the rest of us would prefer to mope in human form."

The Beast rises and walks over, crouching in front of the accessories. "Let me be very clear," he says, "if I am to be a Beast for the rest of my life, then you," directing his ire at Caitlin, he snaps, "will be a clock, and you," at Cisco, "a candelabra." Straightening, he swings his cape around himself and prowls off towards the staircase, disappearing around the corner.

In the tower, Cisco and Caitlin linger. "He's so charming," Cisco murmurs, rubbing his forehead.

"It's been a tough week," Caitlin allows. "A petal fell last night."

Everyone in the castle knew: The Beast's furious roar awoke anyone who wasn't already awake. He nearly snapped a poor spoon in half for glinting in a friendly fashion. As it was, he shredded a dozen canvases before cooling off. Charming though he once may have been, The Beast was nothing if not temperamental now.

"How much time do we have?" Cisco asks, hopping over to the window and looking down at the frozen court.

"Eight petals."

Working his jaw, Cisco says, "A fortnight at this pace."

"No one can fall in love in a fortnight."

"I disagree," Cindy replies, floating down from the rafters. Cisco smiles, holding out his arms and accepting the swan feather-duster into them. "She doesn't need to marry him. She just needs to love him."

"I'm certain those goals are mutually exclusive," Cisco says, spinning her around. "You look ravishing."

"Do you mean to say you wouldn't marry me?" Cindy replies, resting a splayed wing against his metal arm.

"Not at all. I only mean for him that marriage is a business transaction. Love is fiction. I'm surprised his father never assigned him a wife. It would have simplified our predicament a great deal."

"The Witch would have set an equally awful curse on him," Caitlin points out, walking across the floor. Cisco lets go of Cindy and she floats back towards the ceiling. "'Raise a child, or remain a Beast forever.'"

Cisco shudders in mock horror. "Can you imagine a miniature version of that brute wandering around?"

"I thought you were friends," Caitlin replies, lifting her eyebrows.

Cisco laughs. "Unfortunately," he admits.

Cindy dusts him with her feathers in passing. "I'll speak with him."

"You'll talk some sense into him?"

"Is there any other way to talk to him?"

Cisco grins. "My future wife."

Cindy floats off, vanishing around the corner. Caitlin ambles to his side. "Do you really think she'll get through to him?"

Cisco hops over to the balcony. "I have no idea, truthfully."

"The passerby -- she was lovely. How could he ignore her?"

Cisco waves his arms in lieu of a shrug. "How does he do anything? Thoughtlessly."

"She may return."

"The moon may fall from the sky, too."

"Your optimism inspires."

"It tries." Turning to regard Caitlin, he says seriously, "She knows we're here. Or, at least, she knows _something_ is amiss. Winter? In _June?_ Perhaps she will return to investigate."

"You presume she possesses a curiosity that overrides common sense."

"What, you wouldn't explore a haunted castle locked in a perpetual winter, stocked with talking furniture and ruled by a hideous Beast?"

"When you say it like _that_ ," Caitlin drawls, "who wouldn't?"

Cisco laughs. "I hope to never lose my voice. Or you, yours. How lonely would this castle be without our humor?"

Caitlin idles off, leading the way. "Terribly."

* * *

Deep in the castle, the Beast is far from humored.

Storming down the stairs, he veers off into one of the guest rooms, slamming the door shut behind him. A full-length mirror against the opposite wall draws his attention. He dares to stalk up to it -- and immediately regrets his choice. The face in the silver is not his own.

Barry stares into his reflection and tries to find the man, but all he can see are the marks of the monster, claws and fangs and fur from tip to tail. He hates the view, and he hates the way his body moves, huge and preternatural. There is little he doesn't dislike about this whole affair.

_Cursed by a witch -- could there be any more unlikely fate?_

Evidently, yes.

He turns away from the mirror and surveys the empty room. A nostalgic ache tightens his chest. He remembers filling every room of his castle with guests. Beautiful guests, living a beautiful life, and all enjoying the company of the beautiful prince.

Now, the guests don't even remember that he exists, nor do they know about the monster in their midst. The witch ensured that no one would come to their rescue: she wiped the memory of their existence from every person within a hundred miles in any direction.

"Barry?" a familiar voice intrudes.

Straightening his shoulders, Barry commands, "Leave me."

Cindy huffs. "If you think I will not use the window, you are mistaken."

He thumps a paw against the wall. "I defy you," he snaps, "to be more of a nuisance. What part of _leave me_ do you not understand?"

"For someone who dislikes his situation so much, you excel at extending it."

"You think I will charm _this girl?"_ He spits the words. All of the royal courting in the world could not unfreeze his heart. How could some peasant girl unravel him? And why should he, an aspiring _king_ , submit to such nonsense? No king ever needed his queen to conquer.

"I think you will, or you will spend a lot of lonely nights roaring at empty castle walls."

He tears open the door. " _You listen to me!"_ he shouts at her as she hovers above him. _"I have chosen my fate, and while I_ regret," his teeth click with the word; his servants were never half so unpleasant in human form, " _that you are collateral, you will neither evoke my pity nor change my mind!"_

"Feisty," Cindy says, brushing one of his horns -- and he _hates_ these horns, these infernal claws, these monstrous feet that elevate him to an inhuman eight feet tall. "What's gotten your tail in a knot?"

Steaming, the Beast walks away. Cindy follows, keeping up effortlessly -- the perks of not needing to walk, he supposes. He doesn't say anything, refusing to give in to regret. He knows he has a temper, but he refuses to beg for such pittances as _forgiveness_.

"Entertain the idea that she comes to us," Cindy says. "We host her, she falls in love with our castle, she falls in love with you. Everyone wins."

"I'm so glad we've determined that it's so simple," Barry drawls. "Here I worried I might have to actually win this poor townswoman over. Now that I know I must only invite her to _dinner_ , I shall send one of my servants to fetch her immediately."

"Your sarcasm has greatly lost its charm, Beast," Cindy remarks, flicking his horn. It can't hurt, but it's the equivalent of tweaking his nose. He swats at her, driving her just out of reach. "You begin to live up to the name."

"I did always enjoy a certain transparency. We princes hide nothing."

"You are not a prince. You're a spoiled little boy with a terrible temper."

He makes a successful snatch for her, holding the feather-duster tightly in his paw. "Little boys with terrible tempers snap birds for fun," he warns.

"It is lucky, then, that I am no bird," Cindy retorts, jerking to one side and slipping free. Before he can react, she strikes him hard on the forehead. He stumbles, putting a hand on a wall to catch his balance. A second knock to the side of the head puts him on the floor.

"You pack a more formidable punch than I formerly accredited you," he grunts, refusing to stand. He yowls when she stabs him in the back, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to drive him to his feet. "All right! Point made."

"But not taken." Another jab to the back of his shoulder. "Barry. You must entertain the idea that this girl -- this curious and beautiful girl -- could be _the one_."

"You and Cisco speak with one voice," he grunts, reaching back to rub his fur, paw spanning ten inches and still covering only a small swath of his back. "This is pointless. She won't come back. No sensible girl would explore such a haunted place."

Cindy glides over and brushes his horn again, making him swat at her. "Come, now. Have a little faith. She's the first visitor we've had in weeks."

"And she will be the last we'll have in months," Barry dismisses, stalking down the hall. He doesn't need to look to know Cindy follows. "Given how constrained our time is, I would consider us lucky to see the next visitor. Well. Lucky for _you_ ," he amends, turning to her.

She flicks his nose before flitting off.

Barry reaches up to rub a paw across his face. He won't admit the truth to any of them -- that he's terrified that all of them are right and this nightmare won't end and he will spend the rest of his life not a prince but a pariah, outcast at best, damned at worst. If any of the townspeople even knew he existed, they would slaughter him. It's what you did with monstrosities.

This girl -- this _beautiful_ girl -- would be no exception. One look and she would flee into the forest forever.

Better to hold her at a distance, Barry decides, hand gliding down the railing as he descends the lonely staircase, than to subject himself to such disappointment.

* * *

Far below the Beast's view -- two-hundred-and-twenty-six-feet below, to be precise -- and nearly two miles down-road, Iris Ann West brings her white mare to a halt. "Strange," she murmurs, looking around the frosted forest and brushing a hand over an iced-over branch. "What place is this?"

Whinnying in alarm, Volo tugs her reins. "Easy," Iris urges, patting her neck. "Just a cold-snap. Nothing to be afraid of." Cracking the reins, she scarcely has to encourage the animal to take flight.

Together they canter away, oblivious to the castle just out of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cast so far:  
> BARRY = THE BEAST.  
> IRIS = THE BEAUTY. (Belle)  
> CISCO = THE CANDELABRA. (Lumiere)  
> CINDY = THE FEATHER-DUSTER. (Plumette)  
> CAITLIN = THE CLOCK. (Cogsworth)  
> VOLO = THE HORSE. (Philippe)
> 
> Oh, and "Volo" is Latin for "want, wish, will, desire, speed, canter."


	2. Chapter 2

"We may lose the begonias," Iris announces, stepping down from her horse.

Her father pauses mid-weeding, brushing his hands on his breeches and looking up at her. "The weather's been perfect."

"We should harvest the apples," Iris continues, undeterred, "or we may lose them as well." She unharnesses Volo, permitting the mare to wander.

"Iris." Standing, her father cocks his head to one side. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

"I saw snow in the forest. There's a cold snap on its way." Sidling up to him, she wraps her arms around him. He's sweaty and covered in dirt, but his hugs are also irresistibly inviting, and she cannot turn down one. "What say you?"

Shaking his head, Joe wraps his arms around her. "My beautiful girl," he tells her, swaying back and forth. "Your imagination is so vivid. I envy that about you. All I see when I close my eyes is a fine roast turning over an open fire."

Iris smiles. "That sounds lovely." Volo whinnies in the distance and she looks over to see the horse picking flowers, tearing up hunks of dirt in the process. " _Volo_ _!_ " she shouts. Her father lets go and she steps away. "Leave those!" Flicking her ears, Volo obliges, trotting off. 

Looking back at her father, Iris says, "It wasn't a dream, Father. The snow was as real as ..." Crouching, she sweeps up a handful of dirt and holds it up for inspection, letting it sift through her fingers. "I would have brought it back with me, but it would have melted on the way. We were..." She trails off, aware that she ventured nearly a dozen miles from home. "A ways," she settles on.

"A ways?" her father repeats skeptically, eyebrows up.

"We encountered no wolves, nor bandits, nor brutes," Iris assures.

"What of celestial bodies, badgers, or _tax collectors?_ "

Iris puts a hand to her forehead and pretends to swoon into his arms. "Must you frighten a poor girl half to death?"

"When she's my only daughter, yes," her father says, propping her back up. "Come. If our begonias are endangered, it is our sworn duty to protect them."

"We should inform the other townspeople," Iris suggests, gliding away.  She doesn't get far before she crouches and removes her shoes. Mission forgotten, she digs her toes into the dirt, savoring the fresh Earth underfoot. "I love summer."

"You shouldn't walk so," her father chides. "Someone might see, Iris."

"I hope they do, and take notes. These shoes will be the end of me," she says, waving them before chucking them off to one side. "Besides, if a _man_ can walk around in nothing but his breeches, then surely he can tolerate the visceral sight of a refined woman without her shoes."

"Iris," her father pleads. "You know people already talk. Must we give them more reason to?"

"They talk because you cook and clean and tend flowers while I hunt for danger and dance barefoot in the rain." Holding out her arms, she closes her eyes, swaying as though summoning a storm. "Dearest Father, you don't know me if you think the townspeople's opinions matter to me on such matters. Let them talk. It gives them something to do while we cook and clean and tend flowers and seek danger, barefoot in the rain."

"I find soaked socks to be mankind's greatest weakness," her father admits. She looks at him, tilting her head to one side, curious. "I mean, we marvel at wheels and plows and iron stoves, and still can't find a piece of clothing to put inside a shoe that doesn't turn to mush the first time it rains. Where did we go so wrong?"

"Mankind's weakness is womankind's opportunity," Iris says, flexing her feet in the dirt and smiling at him. "You overthink everything."

"It appears so." Looking over her shoulder, he raises his voice and commands, "Volo! Leave that!" Shaking his head, he says, "This horse wasn't worth the silver."

"Father," Iris says, retrieving her shoes and tugging one on, balancing on one foot to do so. "She's the most kind-spirited animal I've ever met."

"Kind and incorrigible. _Volo!_ " Stalking off to reprimand the horse, he gets as close as ten feet before Volo takes flight. He would never hurt her, Iris knows, and Volo knows, too, as she trots back over. It's a game they play -- how far can she push them before they withhold dessert? (Fairly far -- Iris has a soft spot for doe-eyed horses standing just outside the window, looking forlorn and hopeful.) Taking Volo's reins, her father pets the horse's snout, saying something Iris can't hear that makes Volo's ears flick forward and backward, listening and pretending not to listen, respectively.

"I'm going to tell the villagers about the snow," she calls after him.

"Don't be too late!" he replies. "I have pie for dessert."

"What kind?"

"If you want to know that, you must be on time!"

Shaking her head, Iris replaces her other shoe and sets her sights on the bustling marketplace winding down for the day, a tenth of a mile down the way. "Farewell, Father!" she calls.

Her father lifts an acknowledging hand that Volo pushes her face into, demanding attention. Iris smiles at them both before taking off, bound for -- well, not _trouble_ , precisely.

She prefers to think of it as _adventure_.

* * *

" _She's_ the one. Iris is the woman I will marry."

"Wouldn't you prefer someone ... five, ten years older, maybe?"

Hunter scoffs, dismounting his horse at an open stall. Wearing a scarlet soldier's uniform and standing half a head taller than his nearest competitor, he cuts an undeniably striking figure. "Since when are you so concerned about the woman's age?"

"I simply mean for appearance's sake," Hartley demurs, following suit, cutting a noticeably less striking figure. "You know. For appearance's sake."

Hunter rolls his eyes. "So you've said." Then, in a firmer tone, he adds, "The impression the Good Doctor Wells made when he recommended you seems to have exceeded the actual result."

"Very funny." Hartley smiles; it isn't happy. Adjusting the collar of his jacket, he keeps his voice delicate as he explains, "I've been told my personality is not the reason I am recommended."

Hunter lifts an eyebrow, turning to take him by the shoulders. "My dear boy, if you were recommended for your personality, I would fear the whole industry of domestic servitude had fallen to pieces." Giving him a harder than congenial shove, he says, "No, you were chosen because the Good Doctor said you made an exemplary follower. I concur. _Follow_."

Sweeping off, he leads the way.  He takes such huge strides that Hartley has to run to keep up with him. "Sir," he puffs, "what is the hurry?"

"I must leave this sorry cityscape behind as soon as possible," Hunter explains without slowing down -- as is his style. The day Hunter walks at anything less than a brisk walk is the day Hartley will call a doctor to attend to him, for fear of a steep decline in his health. "First, to collect my wife." He shakes his head affectionately. "How lucky is she, to marry _me_." Hartley can hear the swoon in his voice. He does not gag, for even though he possesses a strong personality, he would be punished for such an open display of scorn. Hunter already threatened to hang him from the nearest tower by his toes if he so much as stepped on the back of his cloak. Best not to push it -- before supper, at least. Perhaps after. "If I could marry myself, Hartley, I would have done so long ago."

"Have you not already?" he asks. Hunter stills and Hartley _just_ stops himself from walking into his back. "A man's first love should be to himself," he corrects hastily. "It is empowering, a woman's love, but a man's love is ... far superior. To himself. Man-to-man. A singular man. Not two."

For a long moment, Hunter doesn't say anything. Hartley's head swims. He does _not_ want to spend the night upside-down in a tower. Then Hunter says, "You are by far the most unusual fellow I have ever met."

"So I've been told," Hartley allows, following as Hunter resumes his brisk pace. He resolves to keep his mouth shut until prompted.

"We must go tell the girl the good news," Hunter continues as though uninterrupted. "She will swoon. She will sing! A beautiful woman like that must have a beautiful voice."

_A fair assumption. You have a beautiful voice._

"Why, I shall invite her to dinner. What woman could resist a dinner?"

_I, for one, would love to be invited by you to dinner. And, seeing as I am to be at your side at every moment, I suppose I shall already be._

"And then, once the air is warm and our bellies are full and every townsperson has seen how beautiful we are together, I shall take a knee and declare in a powerful voice that she is my wife."

 _Hunter, I would love to hear you say something in anything less than 'a powerful voice._ '

"It shall happen exactly so," he decrees. "Hurry _up_ , Hartley. You are acting quite _le fou._ "

"Coming, Your Highness," Hartley puffs, hastening his step.

Hunter preens. "Yes. _Yes_. You shall call me Your Highness if you must address me directly. Wonderful idea, _Le Fou_."

_You're welcome, Une tête dure._

* * *

"Your chickens are such darlings," Iris says. She smiles as two hens walk just past her inside the confines of the white-picket fence of Linda's front yard.

"Aren't they?" Linda replies, holding up one for inspection. "Healthy darlings, too. We've been so blessed."

"You may want to bring them in for the night," Iris warns.  "The weather has been acting strangely in the woods."

Linda tilts her head to one side inquisitively. "How so?"

Before she can reply, a tall man in a blood-red cloak opens the gate and strides up to them. " _Bonjour, ma chérie!_ " he declares in a powerful voice, bowing at Iris.

"Bonjour," Iris replies with a frown, reflexively curtseying. He doesn't extend the same offer to Linda.  He stares unrelentingly at her, a passion like wildfire blazing in his towering stance. "Have we met?" she prompts.

"Many times," the stranger says, holding out a hand. Iris looks at it, then him, and finally at Linda, who shrugs and replaces the chicken on the ground. Iris then makes the mistake of giving him her hand. Immediately, he reels her in for a close embrace, explaining, "Whenever I was lonely on the battlefield, or longing for companionship in the mountains, or dining in the finest inns the countryside has to offer, an angel attended me. A beautiful angel. And at last, I have found you."

Behind him, a much shorter man rolls his eyes. Iris can't help but agree. "That's -- quite charming," she says, stepping back. It requires a little force; his embrace is rather tight. "But I fear you've mistaken me for another maiden."

"I am quite sure I haven't," he insists, crowding her space and crowding out Linda. "Come! Let me take you to dinner."

"I have plans," she says in a not-at-all apologetic voice. She swears his servant brightens.

"Nonsense!" the man insists. "Whatever plans these are, mine will surely exceed them."

 _Confidence is charming_ needs revision. Perhaps _arrogance is abhorrent_ is a fairer interpretation. "I must decline," she says firmly.

He puts an arm around her shoulders. She shrugs out of it. "Perhaps another time," she adds noncommittally.

"I have waited for you for so long," he says. "To deny me another day is the sweetest torture! But for you." With another bow, he steps back. "I shall honor your request. Tomorrow it is." Striding off before she can respond, he's gone before she's even asked his name.

"Zolomon remains as charming as ever," Linda murmurs.

"Zolomon? What a name."

"The Distinguished Captain Hunter Zolomon. Royalty," Linda explains, fetching a bag of seeds for the girls. "His mother's side. She married into it. He wasn't high enough on the pecking order," she flashes a small smile at her own quip, "to inherit more than a lordship and ended up a Captain to compensate. He hasn't been here in..." Frowning, she pauses thoughtfully, attempting to recall something that won't come. "He hasn't been here in a while. Strange, that he returns so suddenly." Spilling a handful of seed for the birds, she asks, "I wonder what's gotten him so interested in you?"

"I am -- unusual," Iris permits, smiling when one of the girls tugs her dress. "My dear," she rebukes. "Intelligence isn't high in this one, is it?"

"Nonsense. All of them are brilliant in their fields. She's a con artist."

Iris laughs. The hen pulls her dress again, insistent. "Here," Linda offers, passing her a handful of seeds. "Zolomon will move on," she assures. "He always gets bored in a week or so, if memory serves." Frowning, she adds, "It's strange, I know I've _seen_ the man before -- well enough to know who he is, although you've seen how shy he is about hiding it -- but I can't recall _why_ he was here."

"I would have repressed such an encounter, too," Iris says, crouching to feed her chicken. "He's rather ... unsavory, isn't he?"

"No one's quite like Hunter," Linda agrees. "But, Iris -- _snow?_ In _June?_ " She laughs. "That's like -- _celestial bodies_ falling from the sky."

"Such things occur," Iris defers. "And I'm not making it up. I saw it. I can show you, even."

"I have no desire to go into the woods," Linda says, shaking her head. "Terrible things live there. Wolves and bears and beasts untold."

"They haven't been told because they don't exist," Iris replies, standing. Her new feathered friend bawks at her, but she doesn't produce more feed. "I've been through them, _many_ times. The worst things I've found are wolves at night, and they'll leave you alone if you carry a torch."

"So you say."

"I'm not making that up, either."

"I believe you."

Iris raises an eyebrow.

"I believe you as much as I believe her," Linda amends, nodding at Iris' chicken. "Which is to say, I trust you with my life, but I cannot fathom such weather being visited upon us in this season."

"You'll see," Iris says. "Wait a day. You'll see." Stepping towards the gate, she adds, "Though you don't believe it, I must share the word with others who just may."

"Good luck with that," Linda says, distributing her last handful of seeds. "May you find your believers."

* * *

"I haven't seen you reading a book since -- January," Cisco remarks, hastily amending his initial evaluation: _since you were turned into a Beast_. "Must be a compelling tome!" he adds in a bracing tone.

Seated in one of the grand, throne-like chairs in the center of the room, Barry looks up over the book at him, unimpressed. "What do you want?"

Cisco rubs his metal hands together, half-plotting, half-anxious. "You know, you haven't said much about -- the girl we saw."

"Yes," Barry allows. "And?"

"And." Cisco straightens. "It would be -- beneficial. To you and your feelings. To voice them! Let them flow!"

Barry scowls and lifts the book to his eyes. "Goodbye, _Lumière_."

Cisco hops closer. "I am no _Light_ , I am a _Man._ "

"You are _une nuissance._ "

"Strong words, _un non lavé._ "

Barry stands and holds his book up. "I'll show you _strong words_ ," he thunders.

Cisco bites his lip, nodding gravely, before breaking form to snicker. "I'm sorry," he says, laughter gaining momentum quickly. " _I'm sorry_ , I haven't heard you make a pun since -- _before_." Gasping, he brays, " _Strong words!_ " Doubling over, he _oomphs_ when the book clocks him squarely in the chest, sending him flying. "Ow!"

"Playing nice, are we?" Caitlin reflects dryly, hopping into view at the doorway.

"Barry," Cisco entreats, stuck under the book but still gasping with laughter, "Barry, tell her."

"It's _your pun_ ," he snaps, sulkily dropping back into his seat and picking up a new book forcefully. He is so forceful that the spine of the book cracks, sending Cisco into another fit of giggles, interspersed with guffaws of " _strong words_!" Caitlin pushes the book off him as Barry selects a fourth, opening it with exasperating care. It rests absurdly small between his paws, tiny and almost unreadable -- he has to hold it close to his face to read it, thanks to the unnatural distance between his eyes and hands.

The clip-clop of a candelabra hopping forward does not make him move. "Barry," Cisco says from his foot, composure regained. From the corner of his eye, he sees Caitlin keeping her distance. "My friend, please."

"I know nothing about this girl, and she will never come back. What more is there to say?" Barry says, refusing to look past the book.

A tiny metal hand taps his foot. "What if she comes back? Then what will you say to her?"

"Nothing."

" _Barry_."

"I will stay _right here,_ you will say _nothing_ , and we will all go on with our miserable lives."

"A bright prospect," Caitlin chimes in sardonically.

Barry turns the page. Cisco taps his foot again.

" _Barry_ ," he says.

"Goodbye, Cisco."

"Do you find her so abhorrent?"

" _Yes_ ," Barry growls, setting the book down. "I find every man, woman, and beast on this Earth abhorrent, and I will allow none of them to break into my home to tell me they think the same of me."

Cisco hops up onto the arm of the chair. "I do not find you abhorrent."

"You are a candelabra. Neither man, nor woman, nor beast."

"But I _was_ a man."

Barry rolls his eyes. "Make your point."

"You _were_ a man. Make this girl see that you are still one underneath the fur, and you will find yourself walking free."

"I am not a man. I am a monster."

"Can we move past these circular arguments?" Caitlin asks in exasperation, drawing both of their gazes. "Cisco's right. No woman would fall in love with a _beast_. But you are not a mindless animal. You are a prince in a beast's clothing."

Barry's lip curls. "How poetic."

"Come on." Cisco pushes against him hard. "Dig deep! Remember who you are!"

"It doesn't matter who I _was_." Barry lifts him from his seat and places him back on the floor. "I am a beast _now_ , and once the last petal falls I will remain a beast _forever_ , and no amount of hypotheticals is going to change that. Have neither of you noticed she does not even know we _exist_?"

"She knows something is amiss," Cisco insists.

"She might investigate," Caitlin adds.

"Let's look on the bright side!"

"Our alternative is to sulk in our rooms until we are immortalized like this."

"I vote the latter," Barry says, standing. "Good day."

"Barry," Cisco begins. Barry storms past him. "My friend! You cannot run from your feelings! You do not hate her because she exists, you hate her because you think she will hate _you!"_

Slamming the door on them both, Barry locks it behind himself for good measure.

Cisco sighs, lying down on the floor. "Caitlin," he requests. "Eulogize me fondly."

"We will both be cast this way perpetually," Caitlin reminds, rocking over to his side. "You know that, right?"

" _Here lies Francesco Ramon. The longest-suffering candelabra that ever was._ "

* * *

"Father," Iris says, swallowing a mouthful of strawberry pie. "You believe me, don't you?"

Her father pauses, fork midway to his mouth. "About?"

"The snow."

Her father shrugs, shoveling in a forkful of pie. "Yes."

"Father."

"I believe you believe it."

"That's scarcely better than what Linda said," Iris sighs, resting her head in a hand.

"What did Linda say?"

"She believes me as much as she believes her chickens."

Her father chuckles. "Yes. Exactly. Those are good chickens."

"Father."

"Daughter."

"There's something out there."

"Of course."

"Something very strange."

"There are many strange things in the woods. That's why the woods exist. We can't keep all the strange things here."

Claiming another slice of pie, Iris resolves, "I'm going back. I'm going to find out what happened there."

"You promised to help Eddie with his books tomorrow."

"That man is hopeless with books. Why he owns a bookstore is beyond me."

"Inherited it from his grandfather."

"Ah." Finishing off her plate, Iris says, "That explains it." Decided, she amends, "Very well, I shall go back the day next--"

"One day at a time," her father counsels. "Would it put your heart at rest if _I_ went back tomorrow?"

"It's dangerous," she warns. "You shouldn't--"

"My darling, I have been going into the woods since before you were born. There is nothing there I have not seen in them. I will be _most_ safe, I promise."

"Most safe?" Iris asks, holding up a hand across the table, pinky up.

Her father intertwines his with hers. "Most safe," he vows.  "I shall bring you back a rose, to prove how very safe the woods are."

Iris smiles, releasing his hand after a single shake. "I do love roses."

"And I love you," her father replies.

"I love you, too," Iris says. "I'm not letting this go."

Her father laughs. "You wouldn't be my daughter if you did."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New cast members:  
> JOE = MAURICE.  
> HUNTER = GASTON.  
> HARTLEY = LE FOU.  
> LINDA = AGATHE.
> 
> I do not speak French, so Google translate is my pal. I apologize that the translations range from "direct" to "indirect." Here are the French quotes in the fic: 
> 
>  _Le Fou_ = The Fool.  
>  _Une tête dure_ = Hard-headed one.  
>  _Bonjour_ = Good day!  
>  _Ma chérie_ = My darling.  
>  _Lumière_ = Light.  
>  _Une nuissance_ = A nuisance.  
>  _Un non lavé_ = Unwashed one.


	3. Chapter 3

It's barely sunrise when they say goodbye.

"You will be careful?"

Joe smiles and kisses his daughter's forehead. "My dear Iris, I will be so careful you'll chide me for having no fun."

"Good." Iris hugs him tightly. "Be swift. But careful."

"Swift and careful." Climbing onto Volo's back, he says, "You won't have time to miss me."

"I hope so."

With a light flick of the reins, he guides Volo off into the woods.

Iris watches him long after he's gone, wondering if she hasn't just made a terrible mistake.

_He's a strong man. He'll be fine._

_He'll be fine._

* * *

Somewhere in a distant castle, a terrible roar tears through the clear morning air.

Cisco's flames go out all at once, startling a faint "Oh" from him; Caitlin sidles back into a corner anxiously; Cindy watches in plaintive silence as a feather falls from her tail -- "Another petal," she announces.

A second roar makes the floor shake.

No one volunteers to talk to The Beast.

* * *

"Why do you read?"

"Because it keeps life interesting."

"Is life not interesting enough?"

Iris passes a book up to Eddie, who is standing on a ladder. "When you take a walk in the woods," she asks, "what do you see?"

"I tend to avoid the woods. Very dirty."

"Should you be forced to take a walk through the woods," Iris amends, passing him another book to shelve, "what would you see?"

"Trees and the occasional insect, mostly."

"Which is boring."

"Terribly. That is why I avoid the woods."

"But if you imagined more colorful characters within the trees, the woods become positively thrilling. Just imagine -- daring explorers and outcast kings, disobedient soldiers and rogues, grand adventurers, the occasional brute for fun--"

"Why must your imagination be such a frightening place? Rogues? Outcast kings? _The occasional brute?_ What's gotten into you?"

Iris shrugs and passes him up a third volume. "Life is so -- _provincial_ , Eddie. Don't you ever wish for a little excitement?"

"Not in the slightest. I love provincial."

"I know you do."

Hopping down from his ladder, Eddie clasps her on the shoulder affectionately. "Iris West, you are the most stunning enigma I have ever met."

"A popular opinion."

"I mean that kindly," he assures, brushing a hand down her arm -- more kindness than is proper. She withdraws her arm as a reminder. The last thing she needs are rumors that she is romantically involved with an unmarried man. "Should you ever settle lower than the clouds, every man in this town would fall to his knees to propose," he says, unperturbed.

"That's quite kind of every man."

Eddie smiles. "Well, you know what they say -- the best for the best." Walking towards the back of the shop, he uncrates another book, holding it up to his face. "I do love new shipments. Don't they just smell _lovely_?"

Iris can't help a laugh. "You like the pages, but not what's on them?"

"I love cake. I am a terrible chef. It's who I am."

"Well, that's your infirmity -- my father excels at cooking."

"Your father is a most intriguing man."

"Intriguing because he is kind and clever, or intriguing because he put that fire out with nothing but his apron last month?"

"Both reasons," Eddie answers, holding up a pair of books and sniffing deeply. " _Iris!_ Don't they just sing?"

She takes the books from him. "All right, Charming. Leave some for the other book-sniffers."

"Sorry. It's improper," he says, looking genuinely apologetic.

Iris shakes her head, setting the books on a table. "It's refreshing."

"How so?"

"Most think I'm ... curious."

"Curious?"

"Odd," Iris relents.

Eddie frowns. "That's nonsense."

Iris leans her hip against a chair. Ticking them off her fingers, she lists, "I read, I go into the woods, I stay out past sundown, I like dirt on my feet, and I do not enjoy the affection of every man I meet. I am positively ... _unmarriageable._ " She flutters a hand in front of her mouth in mock horror.

Eddie scoffs. "Unmarriageable," he repeats. "Iris, you are most certainly the most marriageable creature I have ever met."

"Careful," Iris warns. "Or I'll think you've proposed."

Eddie shakes his head, picking up a feather-duster to clean the shelves. "No, no, no -- you know me, Iris. I have _met_ your wonderful father. And I could not possibly measure up to his standards. Nor yours," he admits. "You are ... truly singular. It will take a fine man, indeed, to impress you. I like being your friend. It is much easier and much less frightening."

"I frighten you?" Iris grins, walking up behind him. "I, a fair maiden, terrify you, the noble bookkeeper--"

Eddie turns, immediately on the defensive. "Now, wait a moment, no one said anything about _terrify--"_

"You just said so!"

"I said _frightening_ , there is a _difference--"_ He laughs when she cuts him off, taking his feather-duster with ease and brushing his face with it once.

"You are a lovable fool," she tells him, handing him back the duster.

"And you are a lovable woman."

Iris hums. Sweeping a book from the box, she asks, "Have you ever even read a book?"

Eddie shelves one. "I like the _idea_ of books. Or, rather, I like the idea that they make people like you happy. Mostly you. I like that books make you happy."

"But you've never read a book?"

"Not to completion."

"Have you even started one?"

Eddie makes a noncommittal sound. "They're ... quite dense, you know. Not very many pictures."

Iris smiles. "That's what your imagination is for."

"I don't have one of those."

"You are far stranger than I am."

"Also guilty."

"If you ever _do_ read a book," Iris says, scaling a ladder and pulling one down carefully. "Read this one first."

"What's it about?"

"A handsome prince, searching for his fair maiden."

"Are you awaiting a handsome prince?" he asks her.

Iris smiles. "Perhaps. Or maybe I would like a man who knows how to read," she adds, tapping his chest.

Eddie stands at attention, holding the book to his chest. "Though I am foolish and do not wish to marry the most beautiful, marriageable creature in town, I accept the challenge to become worthy of your hand, regardless."

"How noble." Glancing over her shoulder at the sleepy shopkeepers -- even the baker seems somewhat slow this morning, kneading bread -- she leans forward and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. "You are a good man."

"I attempt to be," Eddie says, smiling. "Come. We have a beautiful pile of books awaiting our tender attention." Leading the way into the back, he whispers, "I'll let you keep your favorite."

Smiling, Iris follows and says, "You spoil me."

"Only as much as you deserve to be spoiled!"

* * *

" _Bonjour_ , good bookkeeper," Iris tells Eddie on the way out, hugging her newest find to her chest.

Eddie lifts a hand in a salutary wave, turning back to admire the stacks of newly sorted books. Iris strides down the lane, taking in the sleepy town. Her mother used to be an early riser and she never kicked the habit, even though it's been the better part of twenty years since her mother sang in their kitchen at her father's side. The morning still sings in her.

" _Little town_ ," she murmurs, examining the way and observing, " _it's a quiet village._ " Brushing a hand affectionately against a stone wall, she sings, " _Every day, like the one before. Little town, full of little people. Waking up to say..._ "

"Bonjour!"

Startled, she nearly thwacks the poor baker in the face with her newest acquisition. "Cavell," she says, lowering her book. "You frightened me."

"Forgive me," the man apologizes, leaning against his wooden shop window with a smile. "It seemed the right thing to say."

"What is that divine smell?" she asks, closing her eyes.

"Ah, the _pain d'épices_. A special occasion for my daughter."

"I love ginger," Iris all but purrs, looking at him and smiling. "What a magnificent life you live, Baker."

"So I am told," Cavell replies with a smile. "Surely, one only surpassed by the life of a fair maiden."

"I am scarcely a fair maiden," Iris replies.

"Correct," a familiar voice interjects. "You are the _fairest_ maiden."

She turns to Zolomon and greets, "Good morning, Monsieur."

Zolomon smiles. It's not particularly friendly. "Good morning, Iris. Fancy finding you here. This is my favorite bakery in the whole town."

"It's the _only_ bakery in town," Iris points out.

Zolomon nods indulgently. Iris notices his servant standing off to one side, sleepy-eyed and largely disinterested. "My dear Cartel here is a champion of all baked goods."

"It's Cavell, actually," Cavell chimes in. "I won't contest the latter, though!"

"See? Good man," Zolomon says, punching him on the shoulder. "Now, Iris." Directing the full force of his attention her way, he proposes, "You should accompany me for a morning walk. I have heard you are quite fond of walks."

"I am also quite fond of reading." Holding up her book in feigned apology, she permits, "Another time, perhaps."

" _Reading?_ " Hunter scoffs. "Who _reads_ in this town?"

Iris straightens her shoulders. "Many people."

"Women?"

Iris' face heats a little. "No."

"Then why do you?"

"Because I like to."

"Have you considered ... knitting?"

"Knitting?"

"Women love knitting."

"Women also love silence."

Zolomon laughs. " _Le Fou_ , you hear her?"

"Loud and clear," his servant chimes in, rather petulantly.

"Don't mind him, he was cursed with a short stature. _Reading_ ," Zolomon scoffs, draping his arm around her shoulders and snagging the book in the same go. "My God. There are no _pictures_ in this. Have you nothing better to do than stare at scribbles on a page all day?"

"Yes," she deadpans. "I have nothing better to do than stare at scribbles on a page all day."

Zolomon shakes his head, passing the book off to the baker. "Cornell, take this. _Iris_ ," he insists, drawing her along at a rather brisk walk. "Come. _Le Fou!"_

"Your Highness?" he asks, absolutely deadpan.

The sarcasm doesn't dim Zolomon's enthusiasm in the slightest. If anything, he seems even more enthusiastic. "Let us go for a hunt. Something to thrill the adventure-seeking lady."

"Isn't that a little .. unseemly?" his servant warns. "You know. For a _woman_." He adds the last _sotto voce_ , pointing to Iris with a thumb discreetly.

"I will find you a fine beast and mount its head on my wall," Zolomon breezes on, mostly to himself. "And then whenever I look at it, I shall think of you." He trots along so briskly that he all but lifts her off the ground to keep up. His servant puffs along after them. "I am a _superb_ hunter. Boar, wolf, elk, bear -- name it, my dear Iris, and it's yours."

"That's very kind of you," Iris says, shrugging out of his embrace, "but I must decline."

"Very well. What beast shall I kill in your honor? How about a bear? A bear makes for a noble trophy."

"Haven't you killed enough bears?" his servant asks in a tired voice.

Zolomon turns with a hard glint in his eye, stopping his servant in his tracks. "Is there such a thing as killing enough bears?" he snaps. "I shall kill them all, if I so desire."

"How noble," Iris interjects.

Zolomon smooths down his own ruffled feathers, turning back to her with a big smile. "I'm glad you think so. I shall find you a magnificent brute to adorn my wall. And you will see it at supper tonight, hanging over our heads."

"A lovely picture," his servant pipes in.

"Exquisite."

Iris suppresses a sigh. "Well. _Monsieur--"_

Zolomon laughs, big and self-indulgent. "My dear Iris, call me Hunter."

"Monsieur Hunter."

Zolomon smiles. "You hear her, _Le Fou?"_

"Loud and clear," his servant replies in the same deadpan as before.

"The Distinguished Captain Hunter Zolomon," he corrects, taking her hand and kissing it. "Finest in the fleet. Unmatched on the fields of battle. A fitter specimen of man you will not find."

Iris resists the urge to make a disgusted face as she pulls her hand back slowly. "Well. _Monsieur_ Zolomon. I look forward to ... seeing you again."

Zolomon bows again, straightens, and beckons his servant after him. " _Le Fou!_ This way."

"Yes, Your Highness," his servant simpers, casting her an unreadable look as he trots along after his master.

Making her way back down the path, Iris finds Cavell. "I'm sorry about him."

"Please. He's not _your_ brute," Cavell says, handing her back her book. "No need to apologize."

Iris smiles. "Brute is such a kind word for him. He's more of a monster."

"All nobility are," Cavell warns solemnly. "He's just more open than most."

Humming thoughtfully, Iris walks away, cradling her book to her chest. _Not all_ , she thinks, taking a seat on the edge of a stone fountain and propping the book open in her lap. She doesn't mind that she's in plain view. No matter where she reads, people will find her. Even if they don't, they'll speculate. Best to quash all hints of embarrassment and do it forthrightly.

Bleating, a sheep pushes its gate open with its snout and trots over. Iris looks up from the book's cover and smiles at it. "Adelais!" she greets, holding out her hands to rub the ewe's neck. "Have you come to hear a story? This one looks _wonderful_." Largely oblivious to the text, Adelais nevertheless takes a seat beside her, bahhing once as Iris rests a hand on her shoulder.

" _Once upon a time_ ," she murmurs, for her and the ewe alone, " _there lived a handsome prince in a faraway castle--"_

* * *

"Who is that man?"

Cisco blinks sleepily, straightening from his doze. "Who is what man?" he asks, waddling forward.

"That man." Frowning, Caitlin stands on the edge of the window, looking out at the castle grounds beyond. Yawning, Cisco hops up to join her and blinks twice at the sight, a tiny shadow in the woods milling through the--

"Oh. Oh, no."

"What?"

Pointing at the rose patch, Cisco swallows hard.

"Oh," Caitlin echoes. "Well. Maybe he won't--"

The man crouches and they both cringe when he plucks a rose from the garden.

"What's going on?" Cindy asks, joining them.

"There's a man in the rose garden," Cisco explains dully, "and he just took a rose."

"...The Beast is on the grounds," Cindy replies in a low tone.

"He won't -- he's never actually _eaten_ anyone--" Cisco begins.

"No one's given him an opportunity to do so before," Caitlin points out. If she could turn ashen, she would; as it stands, her hands creak, turning too fast. "This is very, very bad."

"Where is he?" Cindy prompts. "I'll head him off."

Cisco turns to look at her, aghast. "You can't possibly--"

A deafening roar from below negates all further conversation.

Up on the balcony, a candelabra falls back in a silent faint.

Caitlin stands stock still for a moment before turning to face Cisco slowly, then Cindy. Her wide eyes say it all.

_What do we do?_

* * *

Far below -- one-hundred-and-twelve feet below, to be precise -- and nearly one minute prior, a man dismounts his horse and pats his mare's neck.

"Stay," Joe orders Volo, knowing how disinclined she is to follow orders but hoping that she'll oblige here. Here, in this unusually frosted forest, and he will admit that it is _strange_ to find such a patch of cold in June. Still, for him it's not unheard of. Having lived more than twice as long as Iris, he's seen plenty of strange things. Cold is nothing to fear, and they find dew on the grass many mornings. Perhaps at this latitude frost is more common. Nothing in the least bit alarming about it.

Humming, he picks his way across the brush towards a patch of roses. They're exquisite, deep-red and well-defined, dusted lightly in white crystalline snow. He gazes upon the bed in wonder, amazed that nature can provide such marvels unattended. He knows it is so, for in his memory there has never been a human habitant here.  Everyone in the village knows it. If it nags at him that he can't pinpoint _why_ the fact seems so incomplete, he doesn't pursue it.

Best to live with the inexplicable, unexplained. He prefers a simple life.

He leans forward without seeing the tall, heavily shadowed monster standing just out of sight, its hackles raising as he reaches for a rose.

Hand closing around the stem, he breaks it smartly from its branch, holding up a single beautiful rose.

Satisfied -- both at finding the root of the cold and the rose -- he freezes when he hears a deep, terrestrial growl. _Wolves,_ he thinks immediately, taking off without a second's hesitation for Volo.

He makes it five feet before something huge and distinctly _not_ wolf-like tackles him.

The second he hits the snow, stars shatter across his vision, whiting out an earth-shaking roar.

* * *

The Beast hauls his find back to the castle with a paw curled around a single foot, dragging the man carelessly across the snow. His breath comes out in hot, short pants, mind wiped cool and flat. Repercussions sing in his straining arm -- _oh you stupid beast, what have you done?_ \-- but an overpowering sense of triumph courses through his veins, pushing him onward. He shuts the main door shut behind himself and faces an audience of three very worried pieces of furniture.

Knowing he must look particularly animalistic, he orders, "Not a word" and drags his cargo onward.

Either too terrified to provoke his wrath or thunderstruck, they obey. Dragging the man down a staircase into the dungeons, Barry unlocks a door and throws him inside it. He shuts the bars behind his prisoner and turns, once again, to face three very worried pieces of furniture. Cindy is already hovering before him; Caitlin clatters noisily down the stairs, as Cisco glides smoothly down the railing, spilling onto the floor in front of him.

"Beast," he rasps, standing and meeting Barry's gaze, "what have you done?"

Barry flinches minutely, clenching his claws into fists, letting the sharpness remind him who he _is_ , and firms his resolve. "You wanted company," he rumbles. "I brought you some."

"He's wounded," Caitlin snaps, alarmed and aggravated, more so than he's heard her in a while. "How could you do this?"

"I barely touched him," Barry snaps, recalling delivering a single lunge and a punishing, knock-out blow. That's all it took when you were nearly ten feet tall and possessed the stature of a bear. He refuses to acknowledge the guilt piling like snow on his chest. "He's fine."

"Spoiled little boy," Cindy spits.

Barry steps warningly in front of Cisco when he attempts to hop closer to their captive. "None of you will interfere," he orders, swiping at Cindy when she drifts closer. "I am still _your prince_."

"No," Caitlin says, sidling forward and looking at up him, undeterred. "You are a _beast_."

Barry roars at her, swiping an arm and flinging her back. She crashes into the wall, taking a small chunk of stone with her. In obvious alarm, Cisco goes hopping off after her. Guilt floods Barry anew until he has to put his back to them.

"Caitlin? Caitlin!" Cisco cries, hopping as fast as he can across the floor.

"I'm _fine_ ," Caitlin says, a little out of breath and a touch exasperated but otherwise unhurt, it seems. He hears the candelabra scraping stone from on top of her as Cindy hovers nearby, anxious and unable to help.

Snarling, Barry directs, "Do not engage with him," and stalks off, taking the stairs briskly, needing to put space between them. "Or I will destroy the rose myself!" he roars.

The door slams shut.

* * *

Somewhere in the French countryside, a panicked mare whinnies and presses onward in a petrified gallop, homeward bound without her rider.

* * *

It's late-morning by the time Iris decides to check in at home and see if things have changed.

At first, she doesn't notice anything wrong.

Seeing Volo alone, she offers the mare a brush-down and an apple for a job-well-done, anticipating her father's safe return as she steps inside their small home. But -- no, he's not there. No fire, no humming in the kitchen, no sense of his occupation. She searches the place, top to bottom, but he isn't there.

Frowning but still not overly concerned, she ventures out into the field and the immediate surrounding woods. "Father?" she calls.

When she doesn't find him at his tiny workshop in town, panic sinks into her stomach.

"Father?" she repeats, stepping back into their home. "Father?"

Finding the mare, she takes Volo's head in her hands and asks, "Where is he?"

Volo jerks her head towards the woods, bobbing it twice.

Mounting her horse, Iris orders, "Take me to him."

Scarcely before she's said the words, the mare takes off, full-gallop.

Iris does not allow fear to abrade her courage. She presses on, knowing how essential time is.

Summer is on their side. Nightfall is hours away. But when she comes to the strange snow-ridden kingdom, twilight has already set in. It's dark and damp and still, as far from the crystal-clear air beyond as one place can be. She shivers and crouches lower over Volo's neck, wishing she had thought to bring a cloak. Surely she should have anticipated this, she scolds herself, allowing Volo to canter to a natural halt, turning in anxious circles.

"Easy," she murmurs, climbing down. "Easy, girl."

Volo whickers, tossing her head once. Iris looks over her shoulder and startles, turning in a half circle slowly. "Gods be good," she breathes.

A tall black castle stands starkly in the snow, obscured by neither cloud nor night beyond recognition. Stepping closer, she approaches the stone gate and presses a hand against it. "What is this strange place?" she asks, lingering in the archway. Looking back at Volo, half for confirmation, half for resistance, she firms her resolve when the horse stamps her feet a little. "I'll be quick," she promises, letting go of the stone.

The air is colder and clearer here. She crosses her arms over her chest, attempting to preserve as much warmth as she can. Volo whickers again but does not pursue. Iris refuses to read the implied warning. Wherever the bold horse will not go, she should not dare to step.

Ungoverned by the whims of a beast, she steps up to the very door and stares at the massive affair for a long moment.

Straightening her shoulders, she knocks twice. No one answers, but disfiguring snow-marks nearby make her blood run cold. _Something was dragged_. She can't speculate what pulled the poor creature along -- the prints are mangled, difficult to read. Despite the lack of response, she pushes the door open and loses her breath, gazing in awe at a castle foyer of astonishing proportions.

 _How have we never known about this place?_ she wonders, staring at the thirty-foot-tall ceilings and golden décor. It seems positively alive. She shuts the doors behind her to shut out the cold. At once, the room becomes invitingly deep, a fire crackling in a hearth around the corner. It draws her irresistibly towards it.

"I hope I'm not imposing," she calls to whomever it concerns, standing in front of the fire and relaxing. Someone is home -- fires don't stoke themselves in hearths, nor do they remain brilliant if unattended for any lengthy time. The blazing roar is indicative of a recent passage. Someone is home. "The weather behaves most strangely here." Holding her open palms out, she lets the warmth sink into her bones, thawing a marrow-deep fear and leaving only resilient determination in its place. "It is kind of you -- whoever you are -- to allow strangers into your home."

Stepping away from the fire, she straightens her shoulders and adds to castle walls, "I'm looking for someone."

* * *

"Do you hear that?"

Caitlin alights on her feet carefully, blinking. "Is that--"

"A _girl_ ," Cisco whispers, and neither joy nor horror is more readable in his tone.

Cindy pushes futilely at the door, scowling as it refuses to budge. "She's in far deeper danger than she realizes."

Cisco looks ill, but he clasps his hands together bracingly. "The heavens have delivered _un cadeau_ ," he announces. "Let us hope our Beast recalls how to be gracious."

* * *

The Beast himself is scarcely feet away from the stranger in the foyer, close enough to _hear_ her, and it is most certainly a woman. He freezes in place on the floor just above her, holding the railing and listening closely.

* * *

"How have we never found this place?" Iris muses out loud. "Such a magnificent castle -- hidden so well from view we didn't even know it was here. Why have we not heard of it?"

* * *

 _A curse was placed upon us_ , The Beast does not respond, turning and padding towards the staircase _. Not only would we be confined to these hideous forms -- I as a Beast, my servants as accessories -- we would fall away from the memory of all those who used to know us. We would disappear. First from memory, and at last from our own selves. A life of obscurity._

* * *

"I'm looking for someone," Iris calls, oblivious to the Beast above her. "Has a man passed this way?"

* * *

The Beast's lip curls. _She seeks the stranger?_

* * *

"Where is the owner of this magnificent castle?" Iris continues. "Surely, if you are present, you will show yourself. I assure you, I have no fangs nor claws."

* * *

The Beast almost snorts at the irony, subconsciously holding his paws to his chest for a moment, claws turned inward. He keeps his mouth closed -- he can't remember the last time he smiled, and that was well before he became a _Beast_ \-- but he can do nothing for the horns. _She didn't even speculate I might have those._

His tail swishes somewhat mutinously behind him, and he exhales slowly and continues his march, a little heavier.

* * *

Stepping deeper into the castle, Iris finds a staircase and calls down, "Hello? Anyone there?"

* * *

Cisco jumps up and down, giddy with excitement. "A girl! A girl!"

" _Calm_ yourself," Caitlin reprimands in a whisper, clocking him on the back.

Clasping his hands to his mouth, Cisco repeats in an ecstatic hiss, " _Caitlin! There's a girl here!_ "

Cindy and Caitlin share a meaningful look. Cisco giggles, dancing in a circle, chanting, "A girl, a girl, a girl!"

* * *

A tiny clinking noise below draws Iris' attention. Stepping down, she keeps talking -- her father scarcely accused her of holding her tongue, and she likes how conversation fills big spaces.

"Hello? I don't mean to intrude, but I'm looking for someone, and I believe he may have passed this way."

The same tiny noise cuts off abruptly, replaced by a louder _clang_ as metal hits a stone floor. "My father -- he came to investigate the frost and snow I told him about."

* * *

"I _knew_ it!" Cisco exclaims.

"Be _quiet_ ," Caitlin hisses, sitting on top of him on the floor. "She will come no further _if the furniture starts speaking to her._ "

"She came back! She came back!"

* * *

Picking a torch from a wall, Iris flashes it before her. Just ahead, a metal door stands, imposingly cool. Bracing her shoulders, she steps towards it, feeling for the knob and tugging it open with an almighty heave. "My, what _great_ doors you have," she grunts, hauling it outward. "I wish to speak with the master of this castle. Is he present?"

"Oh, baby."

" _Father_."

Iris rushes down the stairs, barely keeping her torch aloft in her haste. (Unbeknownst to her, her steps mask the clatter of a clock and candelabra scrambling to the side of the room, a feather-duster sweeping out of the door behind her.)

Lifting her torch, she sees her father standing inside a cell. Something low and horrified builds in her chest at the sight. "Father," she breathes, stepping up to him. "You're wounded," she says, reaching for his face, a bruise forming around his left eye. "What happened?"

"Iris." He swallows heavily. "You must go. Immediately."

"Nonsense." Looking at the gate, she tugs at it. "I'm not leaving without you."

"Iris, please."

"Father," she replies. "I'm not leaving without you." Turning towards the wall, she asks, "Who put you in this place?"

" _I did._ "

Every hair on the back of Iris' neck rises, and she nearly drops her torch. She turns towards the sound of the voice, her torch only carrying its light so far.

Near the top of the stairs, she sees a shadow -- a massive, inhuman shadow. It prowls towards her and she presses instinctively back against the gate. Her father places a hand on her shoulder.

"Do whatever you want to me," her father commands, "but if you touch her, I will _slaughter_ you."

" _Powerful words from a powerless man,_ " the stranger observes, voice such a deep timbre it sounds scarcely human. " _I will not harm either of you._ "

"Why did you put him here?" Iris demands, breaking free from her father's hold to step forward as the monster descends the stairs. "What has he done?"

A deep growl resonates between them. " _Leave us. I have no quarrel with you_."

"This is my _father_ ," Iris says, exasperated and beginning to feel annoyed despite the terror sliding down her spine as the stranger steps down the stairs. It's becoming clearer he is the largest man she has ever seen, towering above the likes of even Monsieur Zolomon. "I'm not _leaving him_ , you brute."

A sound that is decidedly animalistic fills the air. " _Do not call me that._ "

He's almost in view, now, and her eyes must deceive her -- he must be eight feet tall, towering head and shoulders above any contenders. "Are you such a coward you will not show your face?" she challenges when he refuses to step any closer, still out of candle's reach.

His voice is stony: " _Your father is a thief._ "

"Roses are scarcely your sole proprietorship," her father points out caustically. "And imprisonment seems an exaggerated response to an innocent crime."

" _Perhaps so._ "

When he says no more, Iris steps forward. She catches a glint of claws in the torchlight before he retreats. "What -- _are_ you?" she dares to ask.

He doesn't step back again, but he looks away, hiding his face for a moment.

" _No one you should trouble yourself with. Leave us._ "

"So what? You can slaughter him?"

" _No harm will come to either of you_ ," he snaps. " _But he is a thief, and he deserves to serve penance for his crime. My mind has been made. You will not change it._ "

"I doubt that." Another step forward; he dances back. "You are a coward. Why won't you show your face?"

" _He is frightened_ ," a tiny voice whispers, followed by the clank of wood on metal. Iris turns towards the sound, but before she can locate the source, the stranger growls.

" _I am not afraid of her._ "

" _Not of her. Of himself_ ," the same tiny voice insists, followed by a sharper clank, and Iris holds up the torch, but it is only a candelabra and a clock against the wall. She hears footsteps approaching and does not need to turn to know he is there -- right there, within arm's reach.

This soft, and this close, his voice is almost melodious: " _Do you truly wish to see?_ "

 _What could possibly be so horrifying?_ crosses her mind. She nods instead, and hears him inhale deeply.

Her father says faintly, "Iris," but she is already turning.

In full torchlight, she beholds The Beast for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:  
>  _Un cadeau_ = A gift.


	4. Chapter 4

Since she was a young girl, Iris always wanted to go out into the woods.

From the day she could walk, she strained towards the great unknown. Her mother told stories, hoping to satiate her appetite, but then Mother was gone, and there were no new stories. Undeterred, Iris made up her own stories. As soon as she could ride a horse, she begged her father to let her go and fulfill them. _Not far_ , she promised.  _Nowhere dangerous_. He refused her, insisting that the woods were inherently dangerous.

One unremarkable spring day, a nine-year-old Iris waited until her father had left for town before untethering Grey from his post. Astride her noble steed, she led him deep into the woods, taking in the trees spanning out of sight above her, the grass giving way to forest floor before them. She loved the freedom of being master of her own fate, wind in her hair, adventure in her sails.

She didn't see the bear.

Grey did. He whinnied and jerked back, nearly unseating Iris from the saddle. She clutched at his neck and caught sight of a brown bear surging towards them. Not far from them, it stood up, towering as tall as the balking horse. Its outstretched arms were a powerful show of strength. Grey bucked. Unprepared for it, Iris fell.

Off into the woods the horse went. Scrambling to sit up, Iris backed away from the approaching bear. It dropped to all fours as it sauntered towards her, all yellow canines and unmistakable intent.

Closing, the bear charged. Shrinking inward, Iris wrapped her arms around her head and prayed that her father would never find out about this. Before the bear reached her, a bleat stopped it in its tracks. There was an inquisitive sound from it, scant inches from her, before it turned around and retreated. Iris dared to lift her eyes and saw it sniffing among a trio of cubs, nudging one with her snout. With a satisfied grunt, the bear cantered off, disappearing with its cubs down a slope.

Shakily, Iris stood. Grey was gone, but she refused to leave him to his fate, calling his name and walking towards the last place she had seen him. The woods were no place for a horse, and they were certainly no place for a child, but she let neither fact stop her. It took until nearly dark, but she found him. "Let's go home," she said, clambering onto his back. "Go home, _Gris_."

Her father never found out about the bear, but he still scolded her soundly for venturing out into the woods.

"I'm sorry, Father," she demurred.

Her father brushed a hand down his face, hand on Grey's flank. "I can't stop you from going, can I?"

"You can try," she offered, and his slow-building laugh was worth the close encounter.

From that day on, she never saw a bear again.

* * *

Staring at The Beast, Iris feels a familiar flush of paralyzing fear wash over her.

With a shallow exhale, The Beast straightens, putting his shoulders back. He stands at his full height -- eight feet, she'd guess. He would make Grey seem short, Volo positively tiny. Frozen in place, she looks up at the top of his head, following the spiral of black horns near his temples. Letting her gaze wander back down, she finds he is covered in a crown-to-heel assemblage of chestnut fur. On his -- paws, there is no other word for them -- she sees blunt black claws flex, the only sign of impatience. When he shifts his weight on his feet, she finds herself stepping back, glancing down at wolf-like arches. An almost hidden lion's tail sweeps briefly into view.

He stays stock-still, watching her. Sidestepping slowly, Iris places her torch in a sconce on the wall, eyes on him. She marvels at the sheer _size_ of him, a beast of disproportionate magnitude. He is a wolf, a bear, a creature she has never met before, all and none at once. Mesmerizing, in a way.

When she looks up at his face, there is something indescribably _human_ about it. She can't pinpoint it -- though she knows it does not lurk in the high brows or ursine slant of his nose -- but when she meets his eyes, burning hazel, she can't look away. There he is. In the torchlight, she can't deny that he is almost -- magnificent.

 _As was the bear that would have eaten you_ , she reminds herself, and takes a slow step back. His brow furrows, just so, and his jaw tightens. The spell breaks, and the reality of the damp cellar brushes aside all but the most relevant aspects: he is a beast. And he is holding her father captive.

" _Not what you expect_ ," he observes, and it is scarcely real to hear him speak in a voice deeper and more guttural than any human could comfortably obtain. " _Am I?_ "

"Who are you?" she asks.

With surprising grace, he slides past her, marching up to the cage. Her father backs away from the bars but does not back down, staring at him with steely eyes. " _No enemy of yours_ ," The Beast replies without looking at her. " _I quarrel with him alone._ "

"If you quarrel with my father, you do so with me, too," Iris retorts. "Release him."

He scoffs and turns to her. " _You think you can order me around?_ "

" _If a candelabra can, surely she can, too,_ " the same tiny voice as before chimes in.

The Beast lets out a loud growl that sets her back another step, flushed with the same fear as before. "Who is that?" Iris demands, mostly to take her mind off him.

" _No one._ "

"How long are you going to keep me here?" her father demands.

The Beast leans close enough his face almost touches the bars. " _For as_ _long as I please._ "

"Indefinitely?" Iris asks, anger giving her courage. "For stealing a _rose_? How delicate is your ego, precisely?"

" _It's_ _not just a--_ " Closing his jaw tightly, he turns to her and explains in a scarcely calmer tone, " _It is my property._ "

"If you're so fond of it, then I shall find you another rose, and you can release him."

" _You will not find one like that._ "

"Is it some sort of magic rose?" Iris asks, exasperated.

The Beast swings towards her, stalking forward and crowding her back into a corner. He looks ready to say something, but it gets caught between his chest and mouth. He exhales instead.

"Do not touch her," her father says. The Beast slams a paw against the bars without looking away from her, a clear warning in those blue-green eyes. Iris steels her own shoulders, ready for a fight.

"Release him," she orders.

The Beast turns away, blue cloak brushing her as it passes. " _Say goodbye._ " Opening the cage door with a sharp pull, he walks over to the stairs and takes a seat, explaining, " _The next time that door closes,_ _ **it will not reopen**_."

"Iris," her father breathes, staggering towards her and hugging her tightly. "You must leave this place."

"Absolutely not," Iris says, holding on. "Not unless you come with me."

"You've seen that -- _beast_ ," her father adds in an undertone. She suspects it's for her ears alone, but The Beast's ears twitch; he's listening, too. "We cannot fight him."

"What if harm befalls you while I am gone?"

"I am a strong man. I can take this ... animal's hospitality."

The Beast's lip curls as he stands. " _Time's up."_

Iris holds onto her father tighter, closing her eyes. "I love you," she whispers.

Before he can react, she shoves him back hard and dashes into the cell, yanking the gate closed behind her. The Beast roars; her father's own anguished, " _No!_ " is nearly drowned out by the earth-shaking sound.

"I promised an exchange," Iris says stiffly as the pandemonium fades and The Beast presses forward, her father struggling up off the floor. "I intend to honor that."

" _You are a_ fool," The Beast spits.

Lifting her chin, Iris states, "You have no reason to keep him. Let him go."

"Absolutely not," her father says, rushing forward, but The Beast puts a massive paw on his chest, halting him in place.

" _If you insist,_ " he replies. Her father's punches land on the brute's arm without effect. With a disinterested effort, he grabs her father around the waist and slings him over one shoulder. " _We're leaving._ "

" _No_ ," her father cries, pounding on The Beast's back. " _No!_ "

With a small disgusted noise, The Beast blows out the torch on the wall, plunging the room into darkness. " _Come_ ," he snaps, and Iris hears a strange din, metal on stone, clink, clink, clink, as The Beast ascends the stairs.  When he reaches the door, he opens it, and the outline of a candelabra and clock become visible just behind him.

 _This place is stranger than I gave it credit for_ , Iris thinks, closing her eyes when the door shuts behind them.

* * *

"Barry," Cisco hisses, hopping alongside him, "this is not how you woo a woman!"

"Good thing I'm not trying to _woo_ her," Barry snarls.

"Let me _go_ ," their captive snaps.

Barry ignores him, throwing open the castle doors and carrying their unhappy guest out across the snow. "Go home," he insists, dropping the man.

Without warning, his chest tightens. Panic fills his lungs. _No_ , he thinks, staggering away, blind and deaf to the man, powerless to alter his own fate. _No._

Storming back up the path, he slams the doors shut behind him, leaning against them. Barely a moment's pause proceeds before he bows forward in a contorted, terrible arch, jaw dropping open. A single monstrous howl reverberates across the hall as pain surges through him, drawing the anguish from deep within his chest.

From a rose under guarded glass in the west wing of the castle, another petal breaks away.

* * *

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

Cisco pokes The Beast's back repeatedly with a doused candle, attempting to get a response from him.

"Barry," he entreats. "Come, now. It grows late. Our guest must hunger!"

The Beast doesn't respond, curled up on his side. Were it not for the way his chest rises and falls, Cisco might have thought he was dead. It's not an unfamiliar scene; he's always like this after a petal falls, sullen and unresponsive. Though it is literally poking a sleeping bear to disturb him, Cisco must, for he is right: their guest, she must hunger! They can't leave her in a dungeon cell because the master of the home refuses to get off the foyer floor.

A statement he reiterates aloud, cajoling, "Come, let us mope with fuller bellies!"

The Beast growls, and Cisco doesn't need words to read the message: _You are a candelabra, and I am not moping._

Cisco sits next to his back. Closing his eyes, he remarks, "You make a fine rug, my friend!"

It's all the prompting Barry needs to stand, rising slowly to his feet. He stretches stiffly, more animal than man, it seems, and Cisco half-worries the power of speech has finally left him. Then Barry says, "This is torture."

Cisco nods. Above them, standing on a windowsill, Caitlin calls, "Her father -- he's almost out of sight."

"He will return," Barry says dully. "No father gives up on his daughter that easily."

"You haven't met mine," Caitlin replies, hopping down from her ledge and taking hold of a curtain, sliding down. "Perhaps hers will accept that you have devoured her and move on with his life."

"Does your father believe you succumbed to such a fate?" Barry asks.

"I have no idea. We haven't spoken in years."

Barry stalks away.

"Where are you going?" Cisco asks.

The Beast does not reply, taking the stairs at a brisk pace. Cisco turns to Caitlin. "Well then, _mon_ _amie_ \-- shall we attend our guest?"

"Talking furniture won't frighten her in the slightest," Caitlin says sarcastically.

Cisco smiles. "She survived _him_ , didn't she? Next to a talking beast, we're downright charming!"

* * *

"Joseph! There you are, old boy. Where is that magnificent daughter of yours? I've been waiting for her all afternoon!"

Dismounting a panting white mare, the father of Hunter's future wife all but shoves Hunter out of the way in his haste to get to the main road. "She has been taken," he says brusquely, marching on.

"That's terrible," Hartley says.

"Quite!" Hunter agrees, reaching back for and then brandishing his gun. "Show me the man, and I will kill him and bring back your daughter."

"It is no _man_ ," Joseph snaps impatiently. "It is a _beast_. Who are you?"

"The Distinguished Captain Hunter Zolomon. Your so-- a friend of your daughter's," Hunter amends. Hartley understands; _your son-in-law_ is perhaps presumptuous at this stage. After the first date, perhaps; then their relationship will be sufficiently congenial that he can refer to himself as such. "Now, what is this about a _beast_? Bear? Wolf?"

"Neither. Both."

"How specific," Hartley drawls, privately wondering if insanity is genetic. He resolves to discuss familial senescence with Hunter later. Either way, he incorporates it into his list of 'reasons not to marry Iris.'  Iris is a fine woman, to be sure, but -- well, she's the object of Hunter's affection. Enough said.

"Whatever it is," Hunter vows in his robust follow-me-to-the-front-boys voice, "I will slay it."

"He's a fine hunter," Hartley attests, drawing a laugh from Hunter that makes his stomach twist in pride.  Hunter throws an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close.

"My boy!" he exclaims, shaking him congenially and making Hartley blush. "A sense of humor."

"I have no time for nonsense," Joseph dismisses, storming past them. "I must find the sheriff."

"I am surely the finest shot in the land," Hunter protests, stepping in front of him. "Allow me."

"That's kind of you," Joseph says, "but I am quite sure this is a manner you are not equipped to handle."

Hunter grins. "That sounds like a challenge!"

With an exasperated scoff, Joseph stalks off, leaving the two men at the end of the road.

"That went well," Hartley observes.

"Splendidly," Hunter agrees. "Come. Let's go kill something; I need a good story for tonight."

* * *

One thing Barry has learned over the past twenty-eight years: looks deceive.

The kindest women on his arm often prove to be the least likely to spend more than a night with him, and the most honest ones can weave complex lies once he has allowed his shoulders to relax. Before the curse, they would take walks with him, sway with him in the ballroom, and praise him until even he tired of hearing how grand and noble he was. _I am a prince, not a god_ , he wanted to tell them, wearing a stiff smile and pretending to enjoy himself. Eventually, even drink was not enough to numb his senses, but his father's watchful gaze reminded him that leaving early was forbidden.

_Where would you wander off to, silly boy? All the world's charms are here in this room._

He'd come to deliver a certain forthrightness of opinion to keep even the most silver-tongued foxes away. _He's royal_ , they would gossip where they think he wouldn't hear them, _b_ _ut he's a brute. You won't get anywhere. Don't waste your time._ He disliked being rude, but they were _incessant_. Kindness only meant they wouldn't leave, and when he was delirious and frustrated with the same song-and-dance, over-and-over, he would say anything to make them go. Even biting honesty -- _my feet hurt, but not half so much as my eyes when I must look upon you --_ was more efficient than subtle dissuasion.

His father's stance was generally apathetic. As long as he did nothing to embarrass the family, he was permitted to act how he pleased. _Princes should exercise a certain freedom. I'm not going to hold your hand, Bartholomew. Do as you will._

He huffs, sweeping his cape around himself and taking a seat on the stairs. Burying his paws in the fur around his neck, he entreats, _Tell me what to do, Father_. _Please._

A clip-clop accompanies a familiar voice: "My beautiful boy."

He buries his paws a little more deeply in his fur, wishing he could disappear into the carpets. "Mother," he greets solemnly without lifting his head. "How are you?"

The teapot comes to a careful halt on the stair beside him. "I would be better if we lived in a castle with fewer stairs," she admits. "You've been difficult to find these past few days."

Embarrassment makes it hard to speak. "It's been a difficult past few days."

"I know." Leaning against him, she adds, "I know you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"Anyone would be, Barry." He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against his ghastly, oversized knees. "But you have to give it a chance, sweetie."

"Honestly, Mother, I am more afraid of the woman who _isn't_ repulsed by me, than all the women who are," he admits.

"You are more charming than you give yourself credit for."

He lifts his head. "No, I'm not. I'm a terrible prince, and an even worse friend."

"I won't excuse how you treat them," his mother says. He turns to her and sweeps her up in his paws, holding her at eye level. "Nor will I confess a fondness for your temper. Your father had it, too. But I will say that you are a _good man_ , Barry."

"Father was a good man," Barry says. "He was kind, and kingly."

"He was," his mother allows, tipping forward in a nod. "Many times a good husband, a gracious king. But not always the best man. He made mistakes. Costly ones. But you, Barry. You have a good heart."

"I inherited half of it from him. I possess his darkness."

"Your father wasn't dark. He was human. At times, he succumbed to that."

Barry sighs. "I miss him terribly," he admits.

"I do, too."

Bringing the teapot to his face, he presses his cheek against it. "I miss you as well."

"No matter what happens, Barry," she says, "I'll always be with you."

"That is what people who leave always say."

"And it is still true."

Nodding, Barry replaces her on the stairs. "How do I even begin to apologize?" he asks, reaching up a paw to brush self-consciously over a horn. "It is unbecoming of a prince to stoop to such a level, especially with one's servants. They deserve better. _The more giving a man is to you, the more you must give to him_ ," he recites, recalling his father's tendency to stride straight for the stable-hands wherever they traveled, shaking hands and inviting them to meals with him. Servitude was far from a derogatory term in their household. It was a place of honor.

"Start with 'I'm sorry.' Then show it."

Lowering his paw, Barry exhales heavily. "There is a girl. Here, in the castle. She's in the dungeons as we speak."

"Perhaps you should start your apologies there," his mother advises. "At the very least, that's no way to treat a guest."

"Her father is a _thief_ ," he says, a little bit of his earlier fury creeping into his tone. "We have no idea what the Witch's curse may have done to the other roses, and he plucked one! Mother, another petal _fell_ , and I am certain--"

"Can it be undone?"

Barry clenches his jaw and says nothing.

"Can it be undone?" his mother insists.

"No," he permits, peevish but surrendering. He rises stiffly, straightening his cloak. "No, it can only be dealt with."

"That's my boy. Now go. Talk to this woman. Make amends with your friends. And Barry?"

"Hm?"

"I'm still your mother. Don't think I won't consign you to your room if you're rude to her."

"Understood."

* * *

A sharp series of metallic _clangs_ startles Iris from a half-doze.

"Ouch! These stairs, they will be the death of me."

"It would be _easier_ if you brought a _candle_ ," another voice replies.

A pause. "Oh," the first voice says, and then a candelabra springs to life midway down the stairs. With a laugh, it says, "Well, that makes life easier, doesn't it?"

Iris stares. "You -- you can talk," she remarks.

"I can also _sing_ ," the candelabra croons, drawing out the word and hopping onto the floor. "I can _dance_. I am extra-ordinary."

"And I am Caitlin Snow," the clock at the candelabra's side introduces. "This is Cisco."

"Francesco Ramon," the candelabra elaborates with a bow. "Your most honored servant, Mademoiselle."

Iris crouches in front of them, staring in wonder at the two accessories. "This cannot be real."

"I could pinch you, if that would help," the candelabra offers. Then he looks at his finger-less hands. "Well, I can _pretend_ to pinch you, if that would help." He flicks a hand in lieu of a pinch, declaring, "A-ha! You see? This is real."

"But you ... are a candelabra. How can you speak?"

"You've met the master of the home," the clock -- Caitlin -- points out. "This comes as a great surprise?"

The talk of their master sours her. Frowning, she asks, "Where is he?"

"Sulking in a tower, most likely," Cisco says. "But, come -- no princess should have to sit in a cell."

"I'm no princess," she tells him. "I'm merely a peasant."

"In my experience, there is no such thing as _merely_ an anyone." Hopping, he gains altitude, reaching for the lock on the door and puffing, "These locks, must he place them so high?"

"Your future wife could be helpful," Caitlin points out, sidling forward.

Cisco puffs away, adding, "Yes! She could! _Cindy! Moon of my life! My shining stars!_ " Pausing, he stops jumping and calls, " _My lovely feather! My delightful future wife!_ "

"Feather?" Iris repeats before a feather-duster drifts down from the staircase explanatorily.

"You called?" Cindy says, landing in front of the candelabra and holding out her arms to him in an imitation of an embrace.

"Ah, _mon amour_. How terribly I have missed you, these past twelve years!" Cisco swoons.

"It has been less than an hour," the feather-duster -- Cindy -- points out, amused.

"Such is a lifetime for a candelabra. Come, come -- we must accommodate our guest. Can you--?" She floats up without further prompting. With a neat twist, she unlocks the cage.

Iris pushes the door outward. Her heart races. She senses every step she takes must be careful until she is far from the reach of the castle. "Thank you," she tells them.

"But of course! You must forgive our cantankerous friend, he is always unruly before supper."

"He is also always unruly _after_ supper," Caitlin clarifies.

Cisco laughs, unperturbed. "Yes! That is what makes him so enjoyable. He is predictable."

A tiny smile twitches at Iris' lips despite herself. "How did you come to be alive?" she asks.

"Well, you see, I _was_ the handsomest man in the kingdom, but then a Witch cast a spell upon us--"

Caitlin cuts him off. " _Perhaps_ we could omit certain ... flights of fantasy from our conversation?"

Cisco's flames burn a little more shallowly; Iris can only interpret it as embarrassment. "Yes, yes, of course -- we wouldn't want to bore you with our terribly boring stories--"

"They seem quite interesting."

" _Exceedingly_ boring, really, they're--"

"Cisco," Caitlin warns.

"Right! Well. Accommodations! My dearest--" He pauses and tilts his head back to look up at her. "Forgive me, I haven't actually caught your name yet."

"I don't know," Iris says, "do I trust you with it? What if your Witch lays a curse upon me?"

"That's a fair point," Cisco allows, hopping off and up the stairs. "Come, come, _belle!_   We have so much to show you!"

Following, Iris warns, "I must be getting back to my father. He'll be worried sick."

"Surely you could stay one night? The wolves, they are ferocious! They will tear you to shreds!"

"I have dealt with wolves before just fine," she lies. "My father needs me."

"You haven't dealt with these wolves," Caitlin warns solemnly, climbing laboriously at her side. "They're -- particular."

"They make sure no one enters or leaves the castle," Cisco replies cheerfully. "All part of the Curse -- which does not exist! Not really! A gift, some might call it!"

Caitlin shakes her head at him. "You have no horse, either," she adds. "Your father took the white mare."

Iris nods. They make a compelling argument. "He will be worried sick," she repeats, but more feebly. "And I am clearly unwanted here."

"I wouldn't be so sure, _belle!_   We are delighted to have you!" Cisco insists with absolute sincerity. "Please, give us the honor of having your presence!"

"Your master won't be pleased," Iris warns, cresting the stairs and looking down the long corridor ahead as Cisco hops along tirelessly.

"No, but it keeps him sharp! Come! There is so much to see, so little time!"

"Cisco," Caitlin warns, hurrying after him. "We must be -- _considerate._ " Iris reads _cautious_ in her tone.

The feather-duster drifts alongside her. "They're not joking about the wolves," Cindy murmurs as Cisco and Caitlin drift ahead, arguing animatedly. "You would be wise to stay with us. At least for the night."

Iris nods. "For the night," she agrees.

Dusting her shoulder, Cindy adds, "It is nice to see a new face. We do not receive many visitors."

"We do not receive any visitors!" Cisco crows. Attaining great height with each bound, he chants, "Look at this _belle!_   Isn't she wonderful?" Murmurs of appreciation drift from the sconces. Iris stares at them, amazed and convinced that despite the candelabra's proof, this is a dream. If so, she reasons, perhaps she should enjoy herself.

After all, it's not every day that one finds oneself in a _castle_.

* * *

None of them finds the courage to tell her that the night has not ended in the six months since the curse was cast upon the castle. It is a problem for tomorrow.

Though tomorrow may never come. If the curse is not lifted...

Well, their days in the sun may have already ended.

* * *

Barry stares at the empty cell, dragging an exasperated paw down the back of his neck.

"Cisco," he growls, slamming the cell door behind him and stalking off to find the recalcitrant accessories.

* * *

"Look at how fluffy it is!" Cisco exclaims, jumping up and down on the four-poster bed. "Isn't this wonderful? Join me, _belle!_ "

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Iris observes, "You are a curious lot."

"You are a curious girl," Cisco says, bouncing to a halt and shaking his arms to relight his candles. "It is why we are happy to have you. You understand us!"

Caitlin stands near the foot of the bed. "You'll have to forgive him. He has waited for a visitor for a while now."

"It must be lonely."

"How could it be?" Cisco chimes in. "We have each other! And should we tire of each other's company, we may always bother the master." Inspired, he strikes a stiff-backed pose. "'This door shall remain closed,'" he growls. "'It will never, ever, ever reopen, because I am a Beast, and I do as I please.'"

" _A beautiful impersonation._ "

Cisco shrinks inward; Caitlin slinks towards the underside of the bed, hiding from plain view. Iris stands and turns to face The Beast, shoulders back defiantly.

"I thought it was quite accurate," she says.

" _Did you_." The Beast's gaze is unreadable, but his jaw is tense, and his tail flicks in agitation behind him. " _I don't recall offering you a room._ "

"You couldn't expect her to sleep in a _dungeon_ ," Cisco says, disbelieving.

" _I don't recall offering you a room_ ," The Beast repeats, stepping forward.

Iris holds her ground. "Offer me one," she challenges. "Or take me back to the dungeons yourself."

The Beast's chest reverberates with a low growl, clearly torn. Iris steps forward, reflecting impatience. He looks at her before averting his gaze, exhaling slowly. " _Fine_ ," he allows. " _She can stay here._ " When he turns, his cloak fans out behind him, almost but not quite hiding his furred feet underneath it.

As he stalks off, she watches his back until it disappears around a corner.

Cisco pretends to wipe his forehead. "A close one, Mademoiselle!" he says, not quite nonchalant enough to pull off teasing. "I wouldn't put it past him to ... revoke our hospitality." Clearing his throat, he adds, "Please, take a moment -- adjust! Enjoy!" Bowing to her, he hops off the bed and follows Caitlin, who hobbles silently out of the room, duly humbled. Even Cindy lacks a remark as she follows the others, the door drifting shut behind them.

Iris lies back on the four-poster, staring at the ceiling. Pinching her own arm, she waits for the beautiful gold-patterned arrangements above her to disappear, replaced by the plain, uncovered wood ceiling of her own home, but nothing changes. She can almost hear the candelabra and clock speaking farther along until they drift out of range. If she closes her eyes, she can even hear The Beast's footsteps moving away.

 _You wished for an adventure_ , she thinks, opening her eyes and staring at the ornate leaves and creatures impressed on the ceiling above her. _Here you are._

She cannot smile -- for it is not the adventure she wished for, captive in a monstrous beast's lair -- but she can exhale deeply, and enjoy the peace of being alone with it for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New cast:  
> NORA = THE TEAPOT. (Mrs. Potts.)
> 
> French:  
>  _Gris_ = Grey.  
>  _Mon amie_ = My (female) friend.  
>  _Mon amour_ = My love.  
>  _Belle_ = Beautiful.


	5. Chapter 5

Far from a hidden castle in the woods, a gunshot splits the clear night air.

A discordantly joyful whoop breaks the succeeding silence.

"Nineteen! We shall feast tonight, _L_ _e Fou!_ "

Carrying armfuls of dead pheasants, Hartley asks, "Do we ... _need_ this many pheasants?"

"Quiet, _L_ _e Fou_ ; you'll frighten off the rest," Hunter dismisses, tossing the dead bird onto the pile. "Come! We must make it an even two dozen."

Hartley adjusts his grip, trotting after him as Hunter dashes off farther into the woods. "Yes, Your Excellency."

* * *

Sitting at the bar, Joe insists, "He's got _fangs_."

"My dear sir, do you hear yourself? A _beast_?" Tom guffaws, seated at the bar. "You're off your hat."

"Massive paws, killer claws ... a terrible creature. He tore my cloak!"

"A branch could have accomplished the same," Stanley dismisses.

"It was _not_ a branch. There is a monster in the woods and he has my daughter," Joe says.

"You're mad," Dick scoffs from his perch in the center of the room. Tapping his mug against the counter, he adds, "Absolutely raving. Have a beer, clear your head."

From behind the bar, a tall young man replies, "I believe you." Joe turns to look at him, frowning at his familiarity, a moment of have-I-seen-you-before passing between them. Before he can ask, the man continues, "Strange things have been coming from the woods. Very strange."

"Very strange," Tom agrees, waving a fist. "The likes of which we've never seen before!" Then he cups his hands around his mouth and howls. After a moment, Stanley joins in.

"Wolves!" Tom cries. "Oh, wolves! Whatever shall we do?"

Brandishing a fist, Dick roars, " _Kill the beasts_!" He clubs Tom hard enough to knock him clean off his seat. Stanley brays with laughter as the boys take their fight to the floor.

Joe presses a hand to his eyes in exasperation. He didn't want to resort to the lowliest of townsfolk -- the very drunkards who mock the idea of even _wolves_ in the woods -- but the sheriff merely laughed when he told him the story. "Joseph, you are mad. Go home."

"I am not _mad_ , she is _missing--"_

"I'm sure she is simply doing as all young woman are wont to do in the absence of their father's watchful eye. Leave her be. I'm sure the boy will take care of her."

He steams at the notion that it is even a speculation that Iris would stoop to such a debauched romance.

Ferociously, he retorted, "My daughter would _never--"_

"Have you not seen the way the Thawne boy looks at her? They are positively smitten with each other," the sheriff contempted. "Now leave me, I have actual work to do."

Further harrying brought him no closer to an ally. Thus, here he is: at the bar, the hub of strong-armed, weak-willed men.

A robust kick throws open the doors, preceding an equally robust call of, "Gentlemen, _gentlemen!_ " In his neat red soldier's uniform, Hunter Zolomon cannot be ignored. "Let us be kind to Old Joseph!" he commands. "The woods are a dangerous place for any man. Surely you can sympathize!" Reaching back, he snags a pair of dead pheasants and tosses them on the nearest table, adding, "Anyone would see monsters of mice on an empty stomach! Let us feast!"

"Oh, Hunter, you are a good man," Tom says, fetching up a pheasant. "Wherever did you find these?"

"A good hunter never reveals his secrets," Hunter replies, winking before inviting a heavily-laden man to step forward. "Come, _Le_ _Fou_ , these people hunger. While I could _most certainly_ enjoy this bounty alone, I felt it was only fair to share!"

The servant staggers into view, carrying a rather astonishing number of dead birds. "Your generosity knows no bounds, Your Highness."

Ignoring him, Hunter takes a seat beside Joe. "My dear Joseph," he says, crowding out Stanley and placing an arm around Joe's shoulders. "How are you?"

"My daughter is being held _hostage_ by a monster, and the townspeople think I am a lunatic," he says, pushing the arm aside. "If there was a less opportune time for small talk, I cannot fathom it." Rising, he walks away.

Taking no offense, Hunter turns back to the crowd and embraces the privilege of recounting his story to anyone who will listen.

Setting the man and his bravado aside, Joe marches determinedly up to the boy at the counter. "You believe me?" he asks, voice barely audible above the crowd.

The boy shrugs. "It's not the most absurd thing I've ever heard," he admits, wiping out a mug with a rag. "I'm inclined to believe it's true."

Joe looks right at him, and the boy does not look away. "I must ask you a favor I would not even ask of a friend," he says at last. "I cannot rescue my daughter without help, nor kill this beast alone."

"To kill a beast." The boy rubs down a mug and shakes his head wonderingly. " _Mon Dieu._ " Setting down the clean mug, he leans his elbows on the counter and looks right at Joe when he says, "Luckily, us orphaned bastards would not be particularly missed if something went awry."

Joe frowns. He cannot ask who the mother is -- it is impolite in the extreme to do so -- but he also cannot dismiss the nagging thought that he should _know_ this boy. Somehow. Perhaps a friend-of-a-friend. Either way, he casts it aside. "I hope it will not come to that," he says in a low tone, "but there are ... risks."

The boy nods. "I concur." Then, nodding again, he asks, "When were you planning on attempting this daring rescue?"

"When will you be relieved of your duties?"

"Never, if I had it my way," a young maiden replies. Joe turns and examines a girl, roughly the boy's age, wearing a firm smile and a becoming white dress smudged with soot. "My father owns this bar. What man intercedes to steal his best tender?"

"I require a stout-hearted companion for the night," Joe replies. "At most until morning." _By then I will either have my daughter, or The Beast will have finished picking his teeth with her bones._ He refuses to consider the latter as a real possibility, casting it into the hypothetical box of tortures every parent carries regarding the fate of their children. (A box which is especially full, thanks to parenting an adventurous, strong-willed child.)

The girl lifts her eyebrows and folds her arms thoughtfully. "Stout-hearted, you say? Sounds dangerous."

The other townsfolk pay no mind to the odd trio, roasting birds. Joe takes advantage of being ignored to admit, "I need help to break into a castle and rescue my daughter from a beast."

"So I didn't mishear," the girl says. Looking between them, she nods. "You chose wisely, but I'm afraid I cannot allow it. He would be too costly to replace."

"I am my own man, Jesse," the boy reminds. "Permit me to assume my own perils."

"Your own man?" Jesse echoes, leaning across the counter.

The boy ducks his head. "Jesse," he chides lightly. "Must we? In public?"

It clicks: _they're together_. Joe doesn't say anything, letting a silent conversation play out between the two for the span of six seconds before Jesse turns to him. "Very well," she says, straightening as though she is merely discussing a time to meet for tea. "Take him. And when you are done, bring him home."

The boy hops over the counter and presses an almost too-quick-to-be-seen kiss against Jesse's cheek, allaying an almost imperceptible tension from Jesse's shoulders. "Your father is going to kill me," he admits.

She gives him a push away. "He has felt that way for a while now. You cannot pretend to be surprised by it anymore. Go. As quickly as you can."

"Always." Turning to Joe, he extends a hand. "Call me Wally."

Joe clasps his hand in a firm shake. "Joe."

"May we kill a beast."

"May we kill a beast," Joe agrees.

* * *

Even resting as low as he can in the tub, the soap suds only come up to The Beast's chin.

Staring contemplatively at the foamy surface of the water, he draws in a deep breath and exhales, spreading ripples across the top. The warmth sinks deep into his fur, easing the tension from his spine. It does nothing for the aggravation building in his shoulders, particularly at this absurd angle -- his legs bow like a kneeling man on his back -- but he doesn't hasten out of the tub.

If he stays here forever, then he won't need to deal with the girl. Indeed, he won't need to deal with anyone ever again. It's a feasible task: there are no windows, and the locked door will keep all but the most persistent furniture away.  Once the last petal falls, no one will even attempt to interrupt him. Soon, their struggles will be over. Their days are numbered, and if he is being truthful, he does not like how few are left.

 _I am not the one who deserves to live_ , he thinks, closing his eyes. The knowledge that he will twists his heart. He is the only one who will survive this sorry affair, regardless of the outcome. For all of Cisco and Caitlin's talk of the pleasures of being human, he knows their encouragement stems from a graver concern: their very lives are on the line. If he fails, then they will all die, as surely as if he had killed them himself.

_What have I done?_

A single hard knock on the door makes him open his eyes. "Barry?" Caitlin calls tentatively.

Slumping in the water, he closes his eyes and pretends not to exist.

A brief pause ensues. Then:

" _Barry!_ " Cisco sings, pounding on the door with both arms about as loudly as a child banging pots and pans in a well-stocked kitchen. " _Mon ami!_ You will be late for dinner!" With renewed gusto, he knocks, ignoring Caitlin's protests of decorum. "My terrible friend, sin-gu-lar creature of the night! Join us!"

Barry growls, water droplets jumping above his chest, like rain falling in reverse.

"Barry, I will knock down this door if I must, one millimeter at a time!" Cisco threatens, somehow pounding even  _louder._

Barry growls louder, and the noise stops. In a bright sing-song tone, Cisco calls, "Let us in, my fuzzy friend!"

 _I rescind my regret_ , Barry thinks. _The rose can die at any moment now._

When he refuses to respond, the clamor resumes. It doesn't last long before Caitlin finally gets through to Cisco, halting the knocking.

Exhaling, Barry sinks deeper into the tub. His own body heat will keep the water comfortable. He can stay in for another hour at least. Eventually, Caitlin and Cisco will tire of guard-dogging the door. Then he hears clinking away.

 _Strange_ , he muses. _They're usually more persistent_.

Considering himself lucky, he closes his eyes and tries to sink back into a stupor even as his mind attempts to follow them. _What are they doing?_

A thunderous _boom_ rattles the door. Two titanic impacts later, the barrier succumbs, hitting the floor and inspiring applause as the wardrobe responsible crashes into the room after it. "Well done, Monsieur Raymond! Well done!" Cisco cries, hopping up and down. "That was marvelous! Wasn't that marvelous?"

Barry lifts himself to an upright position as the wardrobe does the same on the floor. "Marvelous," Monsieur Raymond agrees, struggling to stand. "Admittedly, a fourth attempt may have ended it on both sides."

"You are magnificent!" Cisco praises, bouncing up to the wardrobe's leg and hugging it. "Caitlin! Your future husband is _magnifique_!"

Ronnie straightens, preening. "Sorry," he tells Barry halfheartedly. "They made a very persuasive argument."

"Pray tell," Barry says.

"'Would you like to break down a door? The Beast has chosen to sulk alone!'" Cisco laughs and lets go of Ronnie, hopping over to Barry but maintaining a generous perimeter. "My fuzzy friend, you look particularly fuzzy tonight!"

Barry stands, water sloshing over the edge of the tub. "Call me fuzzy again and I will lock _you_ in a windowless tower."

"That might be best for all of us," Caitlin allows, waddling over to Ronnie and leaning against his leg. " _Mon chéri_ , you are missed."

"You as well, my dear.  It is difficult for me to navigate the castle," Ronnie admits apologetically. "My legs grow stiff."

"Breaking doors is certain to alleviate that," Barry submits caustically, yanking a towel from the proffering hand of a nearby rack. He is beginning to develop a particular fondness for the non-speaking furniture. They are not precisely alive -- unlike his chatty companions, they are as real as toy soldiers walking through their motions -- but they provide far less provocative conversation. Rubbing down his fur, he demands, "Was it necessary for you to interrupt me?"

Cisco nods gravely. "The requisite hour has passed! If we keep our _belle_ waiting any longer, we will appear inhospitable!"

Barry crouches in front of him. " _Belle_?" he repeats, teeth clicking. "Who is _belle?_ "

Cisco rubs his hands together. "You know -- the girl!" Barry's eyes narrow, and Cisco deflates a little. "Master, can we please just have a civil dinner with her?"

" _Belle_ ," Barry repeats, shaking his head. "I suppose that's fair," he adds, straightening and replacing first his breeches, then his shirt.

"How so?"

Barry slides his arms into his royal blue robes, pulling them taut against his shoulders. One small mercy: The Witch allotted him a single outfit that fit him in his extra-ordinary proportions. "She doesn't know my name," he explains, not breaking eye contact with Cisco. "I don't know hers."

Caitlin observes, " _Un_ _bal masqué._ "

"Barry," Cisco croons, pretending to swoon. "You are a _romantic!_ She will _love_ it! Wait." Frowning, he asks, "She is to call you The Beast?"

"Beast is fine," Barry grunts, smoothing his shirt down his chest. "The Great and Terrible Beast, if it suits her. She can call me whatever she likes. We will not see each other."

Ronnie says, "That seems improbable."

Caitlin agrees, "Unless you plan to wear an actual mask to dinner, you will be forced to look at her."

"No, I won't." Straightening his shoulders, Barry inhales deeply, flexing his paws. "I will not dine with her."

Cisco sighs. "My friend, that is not how you win the heart of a lady."

"Precisely," he replies, sweeping his robes around him as he stalks towards the empty doorway. "You may provide all the hospitality you desire. Do not bring me into it."

"But you are so handsome! And charming! She will love you!" Cisco insists. "If you -- you know." Waving a hand, he elaborates, "Were less sharpish."

The door cracks underfoot as Barry steps on and over it. "I have never charmed a woman in my life," he snaps. "How could I possibly charm one _now_?"

Cisco hops after him, insisting, "Women _loved_ you."

"They loved being with a _prince_. I am no longer princely."

"Those robes are quite princely."

"As are the furred feet and horns."

"Barry," Cisco pleads. "If not for yourself, for _us_."

It finally draws Barry to a halt. He places a hand on the railing, and does not turn to look at Cisco. Tail swishing absentmindedly, he holds his silence. To get a woman to fall in love with him?

_It is impossible._

But for them -- for them, he must try.

With a deep exhale, he nods once.

Cisco relaxes, almost melting into the floor. Barry pushes himself off the staircase and orders, "Do not interrupt my bath again."

Cisco jumps up and down, overflowing with excitement. "I'll go fetch the girl!" he says, all but tripping down the stairs in his haste to get down them.

If only he could share the candelabra's joy, Barry reflects, half-jealous, half-amused, as he watches his friend depart.

* * *

" _Belle!_ " Cisco sings, throwing open the door to the girl's room, "I have wonderful news! The Beast has invited you to..." He trails off, doing a quick spin, hopping into the room. " _Belle_?" he calls. "Mademoiselle?" He leaps onto the bed, frowning at the note on it.

 _As I have escaped,_ it reads, _I forgive you for imprisoning me. Au revoir._

Cisco groans. "Master!" he calls, hopping off the bed and hurrying to the door. Shouting, he shouts, "Beast! We have a problem!"

* * *

Out in the woods, a lone maiden wanders.

Carrying a torch and holding a stolen cloak tight to her chest, she breathes shallowly and steps carefully, aware that the slightest disturbance could alert any number of potential inhabitants in the castle. (Is _everything_ alive? Even the carpets? Perhaps she should have written them an apology for stepping on them before leaving; but she needed time to escape, and she lacked a timetable for when the furniture might return, or heaven forbid, The Beast himself.)

Putting perhaps a quarter mile between her and the castle, she begins to step more confidently, certain that even the keenest ear could not hear her footfalls. So long as she does not shout her presence to the world, they will not know she has left them -- until they find an empty room.

And a note.

 _Presuming one of them can read_ , she muses, holding the torch higher and crunching through icy snow.

" _Little girl_ ," a deep, demonic voice says, " _you have wandered so far from home._ "

Every hair on the back of her neck stands as she turns slowly to her left.

A grey dire wolf's gaping grin greets her. " _What brings you here?_ " it asks, prowling closer. Its paws don't make a sound, but they leave monstrous impressions behind, oversized and powerful.

"A mistake," she says, backing away slowly. _My father's mistake_ , she does not clarify. She agreed to his proposal to bring her a rose, and he never would have endangered himself had she not voiced her support. _Our mistake._

The wolf simpers. " _A costly one_ ," it permits. " _Goodbye, belle._ "

And then the beast lunges for her.

* * *

"Your devotion to your daughter is admirable."

Joe finishes adjusting old Grey's saddle before turning to regard Wally. "She is my child," he says. "Children are irreplaceable."

Brushing Volo's neck, Wally nods in understanding. "My father did not share the sentiment."

"Your father was a foolish man."

Wally's lips twitch in a smile. He climbs onto Volo's back and takes a seat. "Perhaps. I liked to think he was noble. Some king, or perhaps even a rogue. A heroic rogue," he qualifies as Volo completes a circle, anxious to move. "Like Robin Hood. Are you familiar?"

"Is that what he's calling himself now?"

"Well, they tired of calling him a thief, murderer, enchanter, and gift-giver."

"It is something of a mouthful. He is unrefined."

Wally shrugs, taking Volo's reins in hand as Joe sits on Grey's saddle. "He must be doing something well. He has acquired quite the band of merry men."

"He's even compelled a few women to join him," Joe says, shaking his head. "You wish your father was that man?"

"His identity is so well-guarded, he could be anyone," Wally muses. Joe taps Grey into a walk, and Wally mimics him with Volo. Grey cannot move quickly, nor for long distances at anything faster than a walk, but he is reliable and strong. Joe trusts him. For Iris, he must. "I've never seen him. Our resemblance may be uncanny," he adds, a slight smile teasing his lips. "I could suffer to hold a bow and arrow." Lifting his arms, he mimes releasing an arrow from a bow. "Wally Hood."

"Do not make me regret taking you with me," Joe implores, only halfheartedly.

Wally tips an invisible hat to him and sits back in the saddle. Volo chomps at the bit, but she matches Grey's pace. Joe appreciates that about her; she's always followed Grey. "My mother was a wonderful woman," he says. "She died suddenly. Plague."

Joe nods once. "My wife succumbed to it."

"The Plague is terrible," Wally decides.

"May we never succumb to it," Joe toasts.

"May we never succumb," Wally agrees.

* * *

It happens very quickly--

The wolf lunges for her, but in a flash something massive interferes and its teeth close around a different beast's arm. Before she can even gasp for breath, the wolf lets out a terrible scream as The Beast himself grabs it by the back of its neck and lifts it.

Breathing fast, she says in a rush, "Don't kill it."

The Beast looks at her, eyes blazing. "Don't kill it," she repeats, stepping forward. The wolf twists, unable to speak with its neck fully in The Beast's grasp. He could crush its throat, snap its neck -- anything he pleased. The wolf whines in pain when he tightens his grip, and she finds iron in her voice as she orders, " _Do not hurt it._ "

" _It tried to kill you._ "

"Two wrongs don't make a _right_ ," she says, half-exasperated, half-faint. The wolf keeps screaming, scratching and kicking, unable to land a proper blow. Its maw foams with fear and rage, fighting for its life. "Beast," she says, very clearly, stepping forward. "Leave it alone."

" _It deserves to die._ "

A shiver walks down her spine; she hugs her arms to her chest. "It didn't hurt me. It barely hurt you. Beast, it's a _wolf_. Leave it."

" _Wolves are not my providence. When they become my providence..."_ The wolf yelps when he squeezes its neck, snapping its jaws at him. " _The world is callous. Sometimes we must be callous, too._ "

"I don't believe that," Iris says. The Beast stares at her. His eyes shine almost gold in the torchlight. "Justice isn't an eye for an eye. It's _peace_. Let the wolf be." _Let the bear be_ , she thinks, recalling the mother of years past, trotting back to her cubs anxiously the moment one voiced a concern.

The Beast growls, lower and more monstrous than even the dire wolf, and then he says to it shortly, "Touch her, you _die_ " before slowly, slowly setting it down. He releases it after a moment and the dog collapses.

Iris' heart lunges into her throat, and she hurries to it before The Beast holds out a massive paw to stop her -- not touching her, but clearly prohibiting her from moving forward. The dire wolf rises slowly. It looks at The Beast, assessing, before its gaze slides over to her. Without a word, it turns tail and runs, disappearing into the woods.

The Beast lets out a deep breath and stalks off towards the castle. Shaking, Iris hesitates, keenly aware of the wolfish arch to The Beast's heels as he walks. Somewhere at her back, the dire wolf is vanishing deeper into the woods.

The message is clear: _which beast will you test yourself against?_

Silently, she takes a single step.

Both of her feet fit in one of The Beast's prints.

Following his tracks, she reaches the castle long after he has disappeared. The biting cold is supreme. When she steps inside the castle, she exhales in relief. She shuts the door behind her and sees a fire burning briskly in the big hearth, a stack of dry wood nearby. A big chair is perched noticeably in front of it. It is also noticeably unoccupied.

Stepping forward, Iris drapes her cloak on a rack that practically begs her to hand it off, one arm straining politely towards her and resting the cloak once it has it. She passes across the floor, aware of eyes on her but not deigning to look up at them, taking a seat in the chair. Drawing her legs up underneath her, she closes her eyes.

Up on the first balcony, a candelabra pats a beast's arched heel in silent approval.

* * *

" _Mon amie?_ "

At the sound, Iris opens her eyes, blinking slowly. The fire is still stoked before her, even though the stack of wood has diminished, not inconsiderably. Stretching, she stands and winces, looking around -- and then down -- and almost smiling when she sees the candelabra. "Cisco, was it?"

He bows. "At your service, _belle_. Come. You must be starving."

"You have food?" she asks.

He snorts a laugh. "Why of course we do! What do you think we eat, air? Actually, that is exactly what I eat--" Flicking his hand to snuff the flame, he closes his eyes and concentrates, laughing when a flame bursts into view again. "See? Delicious! Though not half as much as the meal we have in store for you. It is _twelve_ _courses!_ "

Iris knows her eyebrows must be high, for he assures, "You do not have to eat them all. We are used to serving the master's voluptuous appetite! It is incredible!"

Iris hesitates before daring to ask, "How is he?"

"Who, Bear--east? The Beast? He is fine. He is fine!" Waving an arm anxiously, Cisco hops forward. "Come, come! Follow me and I shall show you _paradise_."

"I'd like to see him."

Cisco trips, face-planting and snuffing out both candles. "You -- you wish to see him?"

Iris shrugs. "He saved my life. It's only proper to thank him."

Cisco pushes himself to his feet slowly, reigniting his candles. "Wouldn't you rather eat a meal first? A wonderful, twelve-course meal!" he adds with a flourish.

* * *

"This would be easier if you agreed to eat _with_ her," Caitlin points out in an undertone.

Seated on his haunches, Barry watches the two below and says nothing.

* * *

"I suppose it cannot hurt," Iris allows.

Cisco hops forward, practically dancing as he goes. "Wonderful!" he trills. "You will love it!"

* * *

"Isn't that your cue?" Barry points out in a low, rumbly whisper.

Caitlin looks up at him, frowning in confusion. "Cue?"

Barry lifts his eyebrows. "The _song_?"

Caitlin gawks. "He was joking, surely."

"You clearly didn't hear him rehearsing." He straightens, pressing his shirt and robes back down. There's a tear in the sleeve of his left arm, puncture wounds in it -- and the flesh directly beneath. The fur covers it well enough. "Whatever it is, it's quite -- involved. Hopefully once it's out of his system, I won't have to wake in the middle of the night to him practicing." Crooning, he walks away, reciting, " _Be ... our ... guest, be our guest, put our service to the test..."_

* * *

Iris follows Cisco across the castle, stomach growling. Unperturbed by such human fancies as hunger, Cisco hums a tune she doesn't recognize the whole way.

When they step into the pandemonium of a dining room flooded with silverware, he shouts, "Friends, friends! _Belle_ is here!"

Immediately, there's a veritable storm of objects rushing into the kitchen, door snapping shut smartly behind the last silver spoon. "Actors," Cisco chuckles fondly, leading the way. "Come, come! Take a seat."

When he gestures at the head of the table, she obliges, sinking into the heavy chair and marveling at the feeling being in it yields. She doesn't have a drop of royal blood in her, but oh, she _feels_ royal.

She expects a tray of food to serve itself, strange but almost anticipated in this strange place. When Cisco hops onto the table, she doesn't immediately find it odd. He _is_ a candelabra, after all; candles make for fine dining light.

Then the other candles around the room douse, leaving only him illuminated. " _Ma chère Mademoiselle!_ " he expounds. " _It is with deepest pride, and greatest pleasure, that we welcome you tonight! And now, we invite you to relax, as the dining room proudly presents--_ "

Cisco draws in an enormous breath and finishes with a flourish, " _Your dinner!_ "

And then the song _begins_ _._

* * *

In a chamber above the dining room, Barry lies flat on his back, eyes closed as he listens to the cacophony below.

" _Be our guest, be our guest, put our service to the test! Tie your napkin 'round your neck,_ _chère, and we'll provide the rest!_ _Soup du jure, hot hors d'oeuvres, why, we only live to serve! Try the grey stuff, it's delicious! Don't believe me? Ask the dishes!_ "

Humming to himself, The Beast does not attend the dinner, but he _does_ enjoy it.

* * *

" _You're alone, and you're scared, but the banquet's all prepared! No one's gloomy or complaining while the flatware's entertaining!"_

Iris watches the silverware dance, presenting dish after dish, and suddenly twelve courses seems small compared to the culinary feast they lay before her.

In spite of herself, she can't stop smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cast:  
> WALLY = BARTENDER (New!)  
> JESSE = DAUGHTER OF THE TAVERN OWNER (New!)  
> RONNIE = THE WARDROBE.  
> OLIVER = ROBIN HOOD.  
> BAND OF MERRY MEN/WOMEN = TEAM ARROW.
> 
> French:  
>  _Mon Dieu_ = My God.  
>  _Magnifique_ = Magnificent!  
>  _Mon chéri_ = My darling.  
>  _Un bal masqué_ = A masked ball.  
>  _Ma chère_ = My dear.


	6. Chapter 6

Deliciously full, Iris lies on her back on the four-poster and dozes until--

"Mademoiselle?"

She sits up to regard a wardrobe inching cautiously into the room. "Care for an evening gown?" he asks. Proffering one, he adds, "I hope I'm not intruding."

"No," Iris permits, rising. She's pleasantly tired and more than half convinced this is all a dream. A strange dream, full of singing and dancing and a beast with a terrible temper. Though it draws on, she knows morning must be near. Soon enough, she will open her eyes and the magic will vanish.

 _I should take advantage of it_.

Standing, she accepts the gown and tells the wardrobe, "Thank you."

"You are quite welcome, mademoiselle. Sleep well."

Sidling awkwardly back towards the door, he is nearly through it when Iris calls, "What is your name?"

"Ronald Raymond. My friends call me Ronnie." Wedging himself successfully through the frame, he adds, "You may call me Ronnie."

"Thank you, Ronnie."

With a shallow bow her way, he trundles off. Stepping forward, Iris shuts the door behind him and shimmies out of her day gown, setting it on a chair before settling into her evening wear.

As the castle sleeps, she pads over to the door and presses it open. Looking down the hall, she sees no one.

Slipping out of her room, she walks the length of the corridor.  Absentmindedly, she glances through open doorways at empty rooms on either side. She descends staircases, hand trailing along the railing. She traces the trail of turrets to the top. Gazing out over the grounds, she marvels at the frost-coated kingdom. _What curse is this?_ she wonders, ruefully certain that if she awakes, she will never know.

She doesn't mean to find him, but when she walks past another inconspicuous room, his door is ajar. She looks into the room and sees him sound asleep on a bed. He is so massive that he sprawls off of it, head and shoulders on the floor, a foot twitching occasionally at the foot of the bed. As she watches, his chest rises and falls, at once soft and heavy. Seeing him reminds her of a minotaur, guarding its precious kingdom. She considers waking him -- she should thank him for saving her life -- but in the end, she lets him sleep.

She drifts away, and cannot deny a part of her that hopes he sleeps well.

As she wanders, she passes the candelabra -- Cisco -- snoring in a sharp slouch near a window. He's within shouting distance of The Beast, and a strange pang passes through her at the thought. She doesn't know who takes advantage of the proximity -- if it is the metal man or the monster which seeks companionship -- but she recognizes the deep friendship between them. For some inexplicable reason, they're close. Perhaps Cisco is just that lonely -- or The Beast is more compelling than she gives him credit for.

On a higher sill, a feather-duster blinks down at her. Cindy lifts a wing in greeting before tucking it back around her face, dozing off. The clock -- Caitlin -- is nowhere to be found, but neither is the wardrobe Ronnie. She half-hopes they're keeping each other company; it seems terribly lonely to be without a friend here, in this grand and empty space.

The torches end in the east wing, so she unhooks one from its sconce and holds it up to the cool, dark space leading towards the west wing.

 _Father did always say I was insatiably curious_ , she thinks, proceeding at a slower pace. There's a sense of intrusion to this space. No singing furniture greets her, and no Beast guards his lair. It feels like a different castle.

As she passes farther into the space, she finds monstrous claw-marks driven deep into the tapestried walls. A thrill of horror courses down her spine at the thought of what caused them. She can almost see it, The Beast arching and roaring, tearing through the fabric as though it isn't there. What infuriated him so, she dares not guess. She thinks about turning back and pretending she never passed through this place, recognizing the warning for what it is, but blue light draws her ahead.

Passing through the threshold of the room at the end of the hall, she steps into a high-ceilinged chamber. Tall, open windows spill blue moonlight into the room. A single marble pedestal stands in the center of the room, radiant and beautiful, almost out of place in this dark space. She stares at it, entranced, for upon it sits a single, brilliant red rose, encased in a bell jar. Around the rose lie its own fading petals, blackened remnants of a happier time.

She places her torch in a sconce on the wall and steps towards the rose.  She feels her father's unspoken warning to be careful tugging at her shoulder. Ignoring it -- for The Beast is not here, and in the confines of a dream, she cannot be hurt -- she draws up to it. Reaching out, she rests her hands on the jar. It is more alive than any singular area of the castle has been, perhaps more alive than the whole castle combined. Firming her grip around, she lifts the glass clear, setting it down upon the floor.

A stiff breeze nearly extinguishes her torch, pushing hard against the rose. Reaching forward, she cups a hand around its flower, shielding it. "How do you survive here?" she murmurs, letting it go. The rose sags, its brilliant red dimming to an alarming shade of maroon.

A paralyzing roar nearly startles her off her feet. She staggers away as The Beast shouts, " _Don't touch that!_ "

Speechless, she draws her distance as he draws forward, grasping the bell jar with trained care and placing it over the rose. Flattening his paws on the glass, eclipsing the flower within, he stays bowed over it for an interminable moment. Iris' heart beats quickly as she stays near the edge of the room, watching him. At last, his shoulders relax fractionally, and when he removes his paws she sees the rose glowing red.

The Beast steps away from it, staggering _around_ it, and she has nowhere to go but sideways as he stalks towards her. His breath steams; his eyes burn in the dim light. " _What were you thinking?_ " he demands.

She can't speak; _I was curious_ falls flat in the silence. A chill breeze snaps over her skin, raising goosebumps. Cornered by The Beast, heart pounding and breath halting in her chest, she has a realization. _This is no dream_.

Back against a wall, she stares at him, aching for one of his servants to call upon him, but no interruption comes. As he closes the distance between them, she knows she stands no chance against him.

Close enough she can almost feel his chest rising and falling, she says, "I'm sorry."

He turns on his heel, stalking towards the pedestal and wrapping his paws around it hard enough that the marble nearly cracks. " _Get out_ ," he orders, hunching over it. " _Now._ "

She doesn't need further prompting, taking flight and scarcely slowing until she is deep into the dark wing. As she rounds a corner, a puppyish bark startles her. Before she can stop, she trips over its owner. Barking, a small -- something -- clambers around her, jumping up and down with wooden clicks on every bounce. She sits up in time to see a light appear around the corner, followed by a worried cry. " _Belle!_ "

"I'm fine," she breathes, watching Cisco hobble forward as quickly as he can. "I'm fine."

"To be a wolf!" Cisco says, skidding to a halt in front of her. "Alas, I have only candle legs. My friend, are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," she repeats, shaking a little as she pushes herself to her feet. At her side, the pup whines. She turns and sees a footstool wagging energetically, jumping as it barks.

"Ah, this is _Houblon_. _Houblon!_ " he repeats, as the footstool wriggles excitedly next to her, bumping against her. "Leave her _, garçon_."

Picking _Houblon_ gingerly up by his sides, Iris holds it up to eye level. "How did you know I was here?"

"I didn't," Cisco admits. She glances down at him, setting _Houblon_ to one side carefully. "But they have not invented a place _Houblon_ cannot find!"

"We should go," Iris tells him, rising.

"We should!" Cisco agrees, hopping along. _Houblon_ charges forward, outpacing him immediately. Iris follows them, keeping pace with the swift-moving candelabra and trying to calm her pounding heart. "Pay no mind to the master, he is -- excitable."

"He's furious."

"Well, as long as you did not find -- ahem -- anything unusual, all is well!"

"Like a rose in a bell jar?"

Cisco skids to a halt. "Oh, _ma chérie_ ," he says solemnly. "That is his most prized possession. _Sa vie même._ "

 _His very life_.

Resuming his walk, Cisco says bracingly, "But, not to worry, not to worry! Curiosity is a wonderful trait in a woman!"

"Why do you think so highly of me?" Iris asks, following him. "I have only defied you and your master."

Cisco scoffs. "Defiance is a wonderful trait in a woman!" he says.

"Stubborn," Iris insists, "rule-breaking. Dangerous."

"All wonderful traits in a woman!"

 _Houblon_ barks ahead, and Caitlin comes clopping towards them, asking, "What on Earth happened?"

"A midnight stroll!" Cisco lies. "Nothing more!"

"You're a terrible liar."

"A wonderful trait in a man!"

Leveling a flat look at him, Caitlin glances up at Iris, then back down the corridor. "Caitlin," Cisco warns seriously. "You should not go."

"Someone must, before he..." She doesn't finish, waddling off slowly.

"Before he what?" Iris asks Cisco once she has disappeared.

Cisco lifts his arms in lieu of a shrug. "Does as the master does," he explains. "Makes terrible choices, that is. Come, come. All will be well, I am sure." Hopping off, he adds, "I am mostly sure." Then, after a few more hops, he hesitates. "Perhaps I should go with her." Then, looking at Iris, he shakes his head. "No, I am _certain_ it will be fine."

Iris doesn't share his conviction, but she has no choice but to follow his light as he walks away.

* * *

"Master?" Caitlin calls into the darkness. She doesn't dare use his name; if the girl heard and found out who he was, it would only stoke his fury further. And he _is_ furious. She needs neither sight nor proximity to know as much. "Master?" Farther down the hall, impenetrable darkness yields to blue light. She follows it until she reaches the chamber.  Gingerly, she takes a step towards The Beast in the center of the room, arched protectively over the rose.

In a low, halting voice, he says, "She could have ruined us. In one moment of carelessness, she nearly did."

"You have given her nothing," Caitlin reminds. "She has no idea what is at stake."

Growling, he says, "She has no right to my life. Nor any of yours."

Caitlin sidles closer. "It was an accident."

The marble cracks under his claws. "This is _my home_ ," he snaps. "I am the master of the house, and I will not allow a peasant girl to bring everything tumbling down because she _didn't know better_." He throws himself off the pedestal, stalking over to the windows and leaning his paws against the sill. "I want her out. I want her _gone_. And I will not entertain another human being here, not now, nor _ever_."

Caitlin walks over to him, resting near his feet. "Barry," she says, "it was an accident. She meant no harm."

"How do you know?" he asks without looking at her. "She clearly despises me."

"She does not _clearly despise you_ ," Caitlin echoes in exasperation. "She seems quite tolerant, given how intolerant you have been towards her."

"She has no right to my kindness."

"Yet you have gone out of your way to provide it." When he casts her a sharp, questioning look, she elaborates, "The wolf?"

He snorts in disgust, directing his gaze back out over the grounds. "I should have let it eat her."

With an effort, Caitlin climbs up the loose stones until she, too, is on the ledge. "That is not what you believe."

"How do you know what I believe?"

"Because I remember a boy of nearly twenty jumping into a freezing well to rescue a scruffy young mutt." Barry does not move nor acknowledge her, but she presses on. "I remember the same boy carrying his injured father three miles home in the hopes of saving him." He looks at her, but she does not let his flat stare intimidate her. "I know who you are, underneath the pomp and powder. And you are not a boy who lets wolves eat anyone, let alone people like _her_."

"The mutt is a nuisance. My father is dead. The girl is a nuisance, and without me, she would also be dead. What is your point?" he demands.

" _Houblon_ is a joy, and you love him, and you loved your dying father, too. _Love_ , Barry. Love is the point. We act because we love, even when it is not in our own best interests. You love, even when you do not acknowledge it. You saved her because it is who you are."

Exhaling, he rests his chin on his arms, gazing outward. He seems thoughtful for a long moment, and Caitlin doesn't push him. Unlike Cisco, she can handle silence for more than two seconds, taking a seat and following his gaze.

"In six months, thrice as many petals fell," he narrates. "In six days, half as many have fallen."

"The rate has increased prodigiously, yes."

"The very last six will fall in as many hours at this pace," he remarks. "And she -- she _touches_ it, has she no idea how delicate roses are? What if it had died?"

"We wouldn't be having this conversation," Caitlin replies.

He presses his paws to his face. "I cannot even think. It is on my mind at all times."

"Perhaps you should ignore it." When he scoffs, she insists, "Our situation is as dire as they come. If you dwell, you will get nothing done, and fulfill the prophecy. We do have a _chance,_ but the answer is not to lie staring at the rose all day, waiting for the last petal to fall."

"I have no idea how much time I have. Is it even _possible_?"

Caitlin dares to walk closer. "Was saving your father?"

Barry's grip tightens. "No."

"If you believed that, would you have carried him home?"

Barry lowers his paws. "How am I to answer that?"

"Honestly. Would you?"

"No," he snaps, short, sharp.

"Precisely. Even when the odds were stacked against you, you didn't let them stop you from _trying_. _Try,_ Barry. You will get nowhere if you stand still."

Looking at her, he says, "And if I fail as I did then?"

"You will have shown your love. Perhaps you do not love yourself enough to fight for a better future. But if you love any of us -- do not let this one moment harden your heart."

He pushes himself off the ledge, chancing a look back at the rose. Still innocuously bright, bold and beautiful. Even as he looks at it, his shoulders tense, then relax again. "Very well," he says at last, sweeping out of the room.

Caitlin leaves him be, looking out over the grounds, savoring the sight.

If she is wrong -- if she is terribly wrong -- then it may be the last chance she gets.

* * *

"Did you know there is an entire con-ti-nent where the nights last as long as this one has?"

"You're joking," Iris says, sitting in a chair in one of the hosting rooms and looking over as a tray rolls over to them, bearing a teapot and cup.

"I am not!" Cisco says, dancing in front of the fire. "It is -- _magnifique_! A frozen wasteland, far below the Earth!"

"Sounds dreadful." Accepting the cup of tea that the pot pours for her, Iris tells her, "Thank you."

"Quite welcome, darling," the teapot responds.

"Ah, the darling Mademoiselle, the very _Dame de la Maison_!" Cisco announces. " _Belle_ , I would like you to meet _notre reine bien-aimée_ , Nora."

Iris toasts her. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine, dear."

"She is the finest teapot in all the con-ti-nent!" Cisco says. " _Un merveille_!"

"If you are the Queen," Iris begins, "The Beast -- he is your husband?"

Cisco laughs, loud and carrying. Nora reposes on the tray and corrects, "He is my son."

Iris lifts both eyebrows, intrigue filling her with renewed interest, despite the late hour. Cradling her cup in both hands, she asks, "What's he like? Underneath the claws and fangs."

"Brutish and charming in equal parts," Nora replies. "He disliked dancing, but he loved tending the gardens."

"He is quite enamored with his roses," Iris muses, stomach still a little sour from the encounter.

Nora and Cisco share a look. "I have not told her," Cisco apologizes, bowing. "I felt it was the master's place."

"So it is." Looking back at her, Nora adds, "The roses are -- important to him. To all of us, really."

"Is it because of the curse?"

Another shared look. "You are sharp," Nora allows at last, looking at Iris and tipping forward in a nod. "Yes. It is because of the curse."

"What does it entail?"

Nora smiles enigmatically. "I'm afraid I must disappoint you there, _Belle_."

"Should we tell you," Cisco dares to elaborate, "it could ... create problems." Waving an apologetic arm, he adds, "Trust me, we would much rather illuminate you!" He douses his own candles before waving them. When they do not ignite, he frowns. Hopping over to the fire, he reaches close to it, catching a wick and tending to his three flames. "Voila! Illumination!"

Iris sets her teacup on the tray. "If something happens to the rose," she surmises, "will something happen to him?"

"Ah, a sharp one -- a wonderful--"

"Trait in a woman," Caitlin finishes for him, waddling into the room.

Cisco rushes over to her, nearly tackling her in his relief. " _Mon amie!_ You live!"

"Of course I do," Caitlin dismisses, pushing him off of her. "You thought he would kill me?"

"Not for an instant!" Cisco laughs nervously, fooling no one. "Everyone knows it is impossible to kill a clock!"

"Tell that to a child and a high shelf," Iris says, "or a determined cat."

"I love her," Cisco says, hopping back over to her. "If I were not already engaged, I would marry you!"

"How can you be engaged if you have not proposed?" Caitlin points out dryly.

Cisco does a happy little twirl. "Because I am _in love_ ," he explains.

Iris smiles a little. "With a feather-duster."

"The most beautiful feather-duster in the world!" Cisco expounds. "The most extra-ordinary, wonderful specimen to grace the Earth! Brighter than fire, finer than gold!"

"I see you've met the _Dame_ ," Caitlin tells Iris, bowing at Nora.

A thought occurs to Iris: "If she is the Queen, and The Beast is her son..."

" _I was a prince._ "

Iris stands and turns to face him, standing on the opposite side of the room. He looks a little rough around the edges in full light, fur ruffled, dried blood visible on his left arm. His gaze is still bright and fixed on her. " _I did not wish to tell you_ ," he adds, looking at the assorted accoutrements. Cisco bounds off; Caitlin sighs and follows him. After a moment, the tray bearing Nora and Iris' cup idles off, leaving just Iris and The Beast himself in the room.

Keeping her distance, Iris says in a neutral tone, "You do not wish to tell me many things."

" _I would say it's for your own protection, but then I would be lying._ "

With a slow, mock curtsey, she points out, "I have broken decorum because of your lying, _mon prince_."

He huffs. " _A Beast cannot be a prince. You needn't observe decorum._ "

"This seems a dream," Iris admits, walking towards him. "A princely Beast, talking furniture, a hidden castle."

" _If so_ ," he permits, easing back, but his back is already to a wall, " _you have unpleasant dreams._ "

Iris continues. "I could understand the castle. I've always wanted to live a less provincial life." Advancing, she adds, "Even the talking furniture, given how often I seek companions in the woods, chattering in the brooks and songs in the trees." Pausing feet away, she says, "But you ... why would I contrive you? You seem singularly out of place."

He keeps his silence.

"Since I was young, people have told me there were beasts in the woods. Bears, wolves, and boars, the like." She notices his claws flex a little at the word _boars_ , but does not press the point. Not now. "I've met a few, so I have experience, and impressions of what to expect. One could argue this is more than enough to contrive a monster who reins over his castle. Someone like you."

He lifts his head a little, defiance and dismissal in his eyes.

She takes another step forward and he presses back against the wall, attempting to put distance between them. "But you saved my life," she points out. "Why?"

He works his jaw, searching for words. When he speaks, his voice is low and held soft by proximity. " _What do you want from me?_ "

"I want answers," she says. "Why did you save my life?"

" _I had to. You were in danger._ "

"No one compelled you. You didn't _have_ to."

" _Would you prefer it if I hadn't?_ " he deflects, agitated.

She straightens her shoulders and holds her ground. "I do not believe you are who you say you are," she says at last. "You may look like one, but you aren't a Beast."

He makes a low sound in his chest. " _Am I not?_ "

She says, "You don't want me here. Very well. I do not particularly wish to stay. Given you will not feed me to the wolves, you may either live with a thorn in your side, or you will help me get home."

He scoffs. " _You command me?_ "

"Yes," she says bluntly. "You can either keep me here, and despise me, or you can find me a way home, and never hear from me again. It's your choice."

This close, Iris notices, he smells like petrichor. The little movements of his fur are visible, and she experiences a moment of absurd temptation to reach out and feel it. Soft or coarse?

" _Very well_ ," The Beast says at last. He presses forward and she steps back, letting them maintain distance. " _We will ... find you a way home._ "

Her shoulders flatten. She finds unbridled relief will not come, but she nods anyway.

Then he says firmly, " _Tomorrow._ "

Nodding, she commits, "Tomorrow."

They do not shake, but he looks at her for a long moment, and she cannot read what is in his eyes before he steps aside and sweeps away, cloak fanning behind him.

If she keeps her eyes below the horns, she can almost pretend he is a prince.

* * *

_Something terrible has happened._

_When the castle doors open and Prince Julian staggers into the foyer, Barry's stomach drops. "What is it?" he asks._

_Out of breath, Julian shakes his head, leaning over his knees. "My prince, you must hurry. There's been an accident. It's your father."_

_Heart pounding, Barry takes off at a run, leaving Julian far behind him as he dashes into the woods. He doesn't need to ask where he's going -- he knows, has traversed this path countless times in his dreams -- but he cannot cover ground quickly. His breath comes in agonizing pants, his legs moving far too slowly. It's only three miles, but it takes forever -- he runs as fast as he can, but it's not fast enough. Please, oh, please, oh, please, he begs, pushing on, and then he finds them._

_Sir Fred Chyre lies off to one side, gored by some terrible beast, staring unblinking at the canopy of the trees. Barry gags at the sight, physically repulsed a step, but then his focus shifts as he hears a groan of pain nearby._

_"_ _I'm coming!" he shouts, charging across the brush, careless of the scrapes and cuts he acquires. "Please, hang on, I'm coming!"_

_He feels sick to his stomach as he lunges over the last bush into view, gasping hard, a stitch in his side folding him in half. "Father," he pants, lifting his head and staring at the scene before him._

_Father is dead, lying off to one side, right leg torn open._

_The sound, he realizes, comes from a different source. Confusion and agony surging through him, he looks to his right -- and beholds a familiar woman, gasping in pain as she presses her hands to her bleeding side._

_"_ _Beast," she says, looking up at him, wide-eyed and surprised. He starts to rush forward, to help, but she whimpers and draws to her feet, staggering away. "No, no, no..."_

 _"_ _I won't hurt you," he tells her, but it's already becoming difficult to speak, voice dropping to a familiar guttural tone as fangs protrude from his jaw._

 _"_ _Stay away," she pleads, falling hard. "Don't hurt me."_

 _"_ _I'm not going to," he promises, and he stumbles as he shoulders through the brush separating them, oversized and furred, catching on branches. "What happened?"_

_She sobs, pushing back farther, but she cannot get far, and he is fast and powerful, a predator closing in. "Please," she says. "My father, he needs me."_

_A deep, terrible sound builds in his chest, slipping past him and sharpening his hands into clawed points. She backs into a rosebush, and the instant she touches it every petal shrivels up and dies, and the monster breaks loose as lightning erupts across his chest. Her scream is drowned out by his roar, claws shredding deep into--_

Jerking awake, Barry pants, staring wild-eyed out at the open doorway. Gaze drifting down, he sees Cisco, anxious and only two-thirds lit. "Master?" he asks carefully. "Are you all right?"

Breathing heavily, he cannot speak, and he sees the same fear cross Cisco's expression as it did _Belle's_ , idling back a step. "Barry?" he half-asks, half-pleads.

The spell snaps, and he looks down at his own -- paws, they're paws, and he cannot define the nameless disappointment that floods him as he glances back up and assures in a low, familiar tone, " _Everything's fine._ "

Cisco relaxes so much another candle snuffs out. Reaching out, he relights it with his other arm. "That's -- good," he says, a little halting, and no small amount scared, as he bows and makes himself scarce. The door shuts a little hard behind him, but Barry doesn't snap at him.

Struggling to his feet -- six months cannot erase nearly thirty years of muscle memory -- he reaches up instinctively to feel his horned head, claws clenching in thick fur as he drags them down the back of his neck. Breathing heavily, he lowers his paws and stares at them, half-expecting blood on them. The only blood on him, he realizes, looking down his arm, is the smattering of it on his left arm from the dire wolf.

_It was just a dream._

Frustrated and furious, he clenches his teeth hard to suppress a growl that wants to roar out of him. _Tormented day and night -- have you no pity, Witch?_

He deserves it -- knows he deserves it, dragging her into his foyer and introducing the guests to their latest uninvited before denying her any hospitality, stirring laughter from the crowd, a petty, boyish move inspired by drink and stupidity bone-deep -- but he still rages against it, a bull in a pen.

 _One mistake,_ he thinks. _One mistake, and it's all over._

Turning towards the open window, he clambers out of it, hanging onto the side of the tower and letting the blistering cold sink into his skin.

_You deserve this._

Deep down, he knows he does. _You hurt them. You ignored them, and taunted them, and pushed them too far._

Scaling down carefully, he reaches the iced grounds and exhales powerfully, beastly to his bones. He wanders into the forest, wandering deep enough that he can almost hear the chatter of the dire wolves, but they do not pursue him. Pain builds in his chest until he can scarcely stand it, but he presses on. _Three miles_ , he thinks. _Just three miles_.

It isn't far, but it might as well be the moon: for the closer he draws, the slower he moves, until it is like carrying a physical weight to even stand.

 _You have reigned free over your castle without consequence for years_ , The Witch condemned. _May you rule it -- and it alone -- forever._

In sight of the edge of the snow, he drops to a knee.

One-and-three-quarter miles.

Just over half the distance he needs to reach his father.

 _Father_ , he insists, attempting to stand and falling forward instead. On hands and knees, he crawls, the strain at his back and shoulders reaching unbearable proportions, pulling against an unbreakable set of chains. He reaches the very boundary and can move no closer than a foot, reaching out and gritting his teeth against the pain as his shoulder pulls and pulls, threatening to dislocate.

Holding his ground for as long as he can, he jerks away and staggers to his feet, quickly gaining momentum as he returns to the heart of his own personal hell.

Panting hard, he holds the edge of the gate and looks outward at the woods he cannot cross, and almost hears the wolves laughing at him, the silent forest denying him.

Defeated, he sinks to his knees, aware that he will be stuck here for absolutely ever.

 _Long live the king,_ The Witch stated.

_For when the last petal falls, your servants will succumb, and you shall remain, in perpetuity, sole proprietor of this frozen kingdom._

Breathing heavily, he bows and stares at the ground.

Unless ... unless.

He thinks about the girl, the _arrestingly_ beautiful girl, who is decidedly not repulsed by him, a girl who may even -- dare he entertain it? -- come to ... tolerate his company.

 _Tolerate is a rather low bar_ , his inner Caitlin points out.

Straightening, he staggers back to the castle. _It's a start,_ he admits. _It's a start._

* * *

"I need your help."

Standing in the foyer, Cisco and Caitlin exchange a glance. "With?" Caitlin prompts.

Sitting back on his haunches in front of them, Barry admits, "The girl."

Cisco claps loudly before Caitlin clocks him, silencing him.

"You told her you wanted her to leave," Caitlin points out.

Barry makes a noncommittal noise. "I ... would like to attempt the contrary."

Cisco swoons, hand held to his chest. "Do you mean to say you wish to make her _want_ to stay?"

Barry sighs. "Yes?"

Cisco hops forward and hugs his leg. Barry yelps loudly when his fur catches fire, Cisco jumping back as Barry swats it out. "Sorry, sorry!" Cisco apologizes. "I haven't hugged you since you acquired fur."

"Perhaps we could refrain until I am furless, and you are not made of fire," Barry says.

Cisco salutes. "As you wish. So. The girl!"

"The girl."

"Romance her," Caitlin suggests.

Barry looks down at himself, covered in fur, tail swishing almost out of sight. "I look like a bear."

"It is appropriate, is it not?" Cisco says. When Barry levels him with a flat look, he waves an arm. Then, unable to resist, he adds, "Is it not, Bear-y?"

"Haven't you ever charmed a lady before?" Caitlin interjects before Barry can make good on a raised paw over Cisco, threatening to deliver a rather robust blow. "Drink and dance and moonlit walks?"

"There is plenty of moonlight!" Cisco adds cheerfully, raising an arm and singeing Barry's palm, forcing him into a sharp revocation of his threat. "And drink! And _dancing!_ " He twirls once demonstratively, beaming.

"I ... cannot dance."

Cisco says blankly, "You are a prince."

"Exactly. I do as I please. Which is not dance."

"Then ... I shall teach you!" Cisco proposes brightly.

"You are a candelabra," Barry reminds reasonably.

Waving an arm dismissively, Cisco assures, "The principles are the same. But drink! And moonlit walks!"

"Gifts. Pleasant conversations," Caitlin adds.

"Songs! Declarations of love!"

"Perhaps we should start small," Caitlin suggests. "One amicable conversation."

"One amicable conversation," Barry repeats. "That seems reasonable."

"And then ... a _dance_."

"We will talk about that." Straightening, Barry nods. "Where is the girl?"

"You wish to romance her at four in the morning?" Caitlin points out.

Barry sinks back onto his haunches. "When do peasants arise for the day?"

"Earlier than princes, but not _that_ early," Cisco replies. Clapping again, he ducks out of reach of a swat. "This is going to be wonderful! Come, come -- we must prepare ... _breakfast!_ "

Barry presses his paws to his face. "Tell me there's no song."

Cisco hops cheerfully across the foyer. "I'm -- not -- telling!"

"There's a song," Caitlin assures grimly.

Barry groans in defeat. "Of course there is."

* * *

"Am I not the most handsome man on Earth?" Hunter asks. "The strongest? The smartest? The most courageous?"

"All and more, Your Excellency."

"Then how," he asks, pounding a fist against his chair, "has the most beautiful woman eluded my grasp?"

"It _is_ quite late," Hartley reminds, stifling a yawn. The bar is nearly empty, but a few fellows remain, keeping them company. "Maidens tend to rest at this hour."

"If Joseph is correct, then she is not resting." Resting his chin on his hands, he adds, "Perhaps we should investigate this beastly claim. The sooner I obtain her hand in marriage, the sooner we can leave this abysmal place."

"A sound conclusion."

Pushing back his chair, Hunter says, "Come, _Le Fou_. We have places to be and maidens to wed."

Hartley follows him out of the bar. It's only the thirty-sixth consecutive hour they've been awake. Wherever Hunter finds his relentless energy, he wishes to obtain the same elixir of life. As it stands, he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, "Let's."

* * *

It's late by the time they reach the edge of the woods. Fatigue presses on Joe's eyes, but he doesn't let it stop him.

"Strange," Wally murmurs as Volo walks side-by-side with Grey. "Snow in June?"

"Before the morning is out," Joe says, "we will see much stranger things. Are you certain you wish to proceed?"

Wally looks at him and nods once. "I came this far, did I not?"

Joe nods, and together they cross the line separating their world -- and The Beast's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No new cast, but plenty of French:  
>  _Ma chérie_ = My darling.  
>  _Houblon_ = Hops.  
>  _Garçon_ = Boy.  
>  _Sa vie même_ = His very life.  
>  _Magnifique_ = Magnificent.  
>  _Dame de la Maison_ = Lady of the House.  
>  _Notre reine bien-aimée_ = Our beloved queen.  
>  _Un merveille_ = A marvel.  
>  _Mon amie_ = My (female) friend.  
>  _Mon prince_ = My prince.


	7. Chapter 7

"Beast," Cisco hisses, waving an arm. " _Come!_ "

Barry growls but lowers his upraised fist and obliges. Stepping away from the door, he says impatiently, "I thought peasants awoke _before_ dawn?"

"When we know she is awake, _then_ you may invite her to breakfast," Cisco corrects in a quick whisper.

"How long must we _wait_?" Barry snaps. "It's been _hours_."

"Yes, because you could not sleep. She is a _lady_. We must let her have her _beauty rest_."

Sulking, Barry sits low on his heels. "I don't even _want_ to dine with her, and she makes me wait for it."

"You want to win her over, do you not?" Cisco says, hopping beside him. "Patience, _mon ami!_ "

Barry drags a paw down his face. He already has a headache, and waiting has done nothing to cure it. Holding off until the strain in his heels becomes unbearable, he shoves himself to his full standing height and storms over to the door.

"Barry, Barry, Barry!" Cisco hisses, but Barry pounds on the door with a closed fist three times.

" _Belle_?" he calls, for want of a proper name.

There's a long, drawn silence. Then, slowly, she asks, "...How have I offended you this early?"

Growling impatiently, Barry straightens his shoulders and announces brusquely, "I am inviting you to dine with me. You will join me in five minutes."

"That's hardly _reasonable_ ," Cisco scoffs from the floor. "It takes _me_ longer to get ready in the morning, and I am a candelabra!"

"If I choose not to?" _Belle_ says.

Barry's hackles raise. Cisco singes his foot and hisses, "Be. Nice!"

Drawing in a very deep breath, Barry exhales slowly and explains in a clipped tone, "You ... do not ... have ... that option."

"What if I just stayed in here?"

Barry's shoulders lift, tensing. Cisco whispers, "Barry, Barry, _no_."

"Then I will _break down the door_ ," he roars.

A beat. "Oh, I would love to see you try."

Wheeling, Barry stalks down the hallway, putting perhaps fifteen paces between them. Cisco, recognizing how helpless he is to stop him, hops up onto a ledge and groans. "Stand back!" Barry snaps to _Belle_ in warning, because he's not a complete brute. Then he charges.

He throws his right shoulder at the door and hits it with a stupendous amount of force, but it does not budge. From behind it, he hears a loud, " _Hah,_ Master, you pack a tremendous punch!"

" _Raymond!_ " he roars. Even in his prodigious size, he _will_ break a shoulder before he breaks through a door and a fully loaded wardrobe. " _Get out of the way!_ "

"Master, if I may, perhaps we may arrange a compromise?"

" _We most certainly may not!_ " Steaming, he wheels for a second attempt and trips over _Houblon_.

The commotion of a barking puppy -- footstool -- and swearing Beast accomplishes what brute force cannot: the door opens, their guest watching in amusement as The Beast himself wrestles with a seven-pound piece of furniture.

"Be _gentle_ , he is a baby!" Cisco warns.

"He is _seven years old!_ " Barry snaps back, wrestling the smaller beast into a grip between his paws. "You are a baby!"

" _Bonjour_ , Beast."

Lying flat on his back, Barry looks up at the woman standing over him and huffs. "Good morning, _Belle._ "

 _Houblon_ promptly breaks loose and bounces on his chest, interpreting it as either a very small bed or a very large pillow. Either way, he deems it an excellent bouncing surface. " _Houblon_ , I will use your legs for firewood if you do not desist _immediately_ ," Barry snaps, struggling to capture the jumping accessory.

In one swift motion, _Belle_ snatches it up. _Houblon_ promptly turns his affections to her, wagging happily. Barry drags himself to his feet.

"You are not a morning creature, are you?" she asks.

Some of the fight sinks out of Barry. "I am unused to having guests," he permits.

"He is also unused to being human," Cisco chimes in, hopping over at last. " _Bonjour_ , Mademoiselle! How did you sleep?"

"Not terribly, considering." Setting _Houblon_ down, she folds her arms across her chest challengingly, still in a nightgown but ready to fight him as she looks up at him. "This meal must be legendary, to merit such an enthusiastic summons."

Snarling, he says, "Every meal here is _legendary_." Yelping when Cisco singes his foot, he stalks away from them.

Over his shoulder, he hears Cisco sigh. " _Prince Charming_ , everyone."

* * *

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" Iris asks.

The wardrobe laughs. "My dear, I have survived two falls from as many stories and countless tumbles. I am quite indestructible. He is merely an enthusiastic wake-up call."

"Thank you for agreeing to help," Iris says.

Ronnie does a little bow. "It is all in good humor. Now. What shall we wear to breakfast?"

* * *

Downstairs, Barry devours half a boar before his guest even arrives.

No longer aggressively hungry, he feels embarrassment sinking in. Wrapping his paws behind his head, he rests his elbows on the table. Staring at a handful of silver spoons lined up before him, he asks in a low voice, "How does one win the heart of a lady?"

Silver spoons two and four turn to each other inquisitively before three hops forward, does a little twirl, and falls back into line. The remaining spoons jump up and down, silently applauding. "I can't _dance_ ," he snaps at them.

Nonplussed, spoons one and five hop forward. One bows to five before five twirls around one, producing the same results. Barry waves a hand dismissively, and the spoons hop off to finish their chores in the kitchen.

The plates are even less helpful, for all they can do is roll unilaterally, and he has to catch all six in quick succession as they plunge off the table one after another in an attempt to mimic the spoons.

Which is how _Belle_ walks into the room to him carefully balancing six plates in his paws, looking ready to juggle them. She lifts her eyebrows questioningly, and he stares at her, for a moment overwhelmed at the fact that she is really, honestly here. _And living up to her namesake,_ he thinks, scarcely permitting himself time to look at her in a rather exquisite red dress.

Then plate number seven attempts to join its fellows and he has to dive to the floor to catch it.

When he catches it in his teeth, the spoons applaud.

* * *

Iris enjoys watching The Beast squirm.

After his initial morning performance, he's clearly doing his best _not_ to do anything untoward. She can't say she understands it -- he wants her gone as assuredly as she wants to _be_ gone -- but she does enjoy the show. Sitting at the opposite end of the table, she rests her chin on her hands, watching him.

He matches her stare, even after the food arrives, before two minutes pass and he surrenders to his appetite. Looking down at the assembled plates, he flexes his paws against the table. Another quick glance up at her -- and she can almost hear the scoff of disbelief that she hasn't taken _anything_ yet cross his mind but not his lips -- yields to a determined look down at the table. He doesn't lift his gaze again, keeping his head down as he spears a croissant with a claw and pops it into his mouth.

Satisfied, Iris takes her own croissant and bites into it. Cisco delivered on his twelve courses the night before, and the dishes follow through with nearly as many offerings now. Everything steams and curls deliciously in Iris' chest, fresh bread that crackles when she bites into it, syrup so sweep it almost ruins her to all other foods. She samples, but she doesn't commit to the dishes, still satiated from her feast the night before.

The free time enables her to focus on him. It's fascinating to watch the battle between stiff-shouldered indifference as he gazes at his plate and open curiosity as he chances furtive glances up at her. Seeking approval, she supposes, unable to think of a more compelling reason for him to look at her at all, or indeed dine with her when it clearly makes him so uncomfortable. Keeping her expression decidedly neutral, she offers no hints to her opinion, enjoying the ruffled routine a little too much to end it so easily.

Around the ten-minute mark, Caitlin yawns and hobbles into the room. She stops when she sees them, about-facing and marching wordlessly back out of the room. Even Cisco leaves them alone -- Iris suspects painfully, given how curious and enthusiastic he is -- and the remaining silverware do not speak. It is, altogether, a very quiet meal.

Then The Beast says without looking up from his own paws on the table, " _So. You slept well_."

Head on a hand, she nods. The lack of a verbal response forces him to look up for confirmation. When she arches her eyebrows, he flusters a little and looks back down. His stiff shoulders look painful. She can almost hear the mini Cisco and Caitlin on either side cajoling him. " _Do you ... like ... mornings?"_

"I prefer evening strolls," she admits. Wincing at the unintentional poke to a sore spot, she waits for his rage to crest and break.

To her surprise, it does not. He just rubs a claw against the table, neatly carving a line. " _That's nice_ ," he says at last, voice carefully calm.

Watching him, she can't help but ask, "What are you doing?"

He stops scraping the table immediately, smoothing a hand over the mark self-consciously.

"No," she clarifies. "This."

Returning to his original distraction, he picks a new spot and digs a claw into it, scratching lightly. For a long time, he says nothing, but she is more patient than she openly prides herself on being. At last, he says, " _Attempting to be less ... myself."_

Cocking her head at him, she asks, "Why?"

" _Must there be a reason?_ "

"There's always a reason."

He flattens his arms on the table, contemplating. To her surprise, he rests his chin on top of them, almost childlike in his stance. Deflecting, he says, " _I'm not very good at small talk._ "

She doesn't know why she cares to ask, but she can't stop herself: "What are you good at?"

Looking up at her without lifting his head, he admits, " _Gardening."_

She presses: "Barefoot?"

Frowning, he asks, " _What?"_

"Do you garden barefoot?" Shaking his head minutely, he stares at her in something approaching wonder. "You haven't gardened until you've done so barefoot. How else do you hear the earth _sing_?"

He stares at her unblinking for a long moment. Then he says, " _I didn't know it sang._ "

She rises. He lifts his head slowly, then pushes back his chair and does the same. Without needing to ask -- or not needing to know -- he follows her when she steps out of the room. In the hallway, she borrows a cloak and drapes it around her shoulders, leading the way out the doors. He follows, albeit a little more slowly, a little more cautiously, like he thinks she will go out into the woods on her own like this.

 _No,_ she thinks. _We have an agreement. This is not it._

She leads him around the castle to a frozen garden. His claws click lightly on the ice; his paws sink into the snow. She stands back as he steps forward, each footfall deliberate and surprisingly light. Despite his size, when he moves, he barely makes a sound.

Back home, whenever she would explore her father's gardens, she was always struck by how alive they were, rustling leaves stirred by a perennial breeze, the press of dirt familiar beneath the soles of her feet. If she walked across the earth, it sank with her, cradling her; if she leaped onto it, it caught her.

The Beast does neither of these things, moving slowly out into the garden. He absorbs it all as she watches him, oblivious for once to his audience. Dropping a forepaw to rest on a stony fixture formerly filled with flowers, he curls his claws around it contemplatively. When he walks away, pressing deeper into the former grove of plants and trees, his footfalls are almost musical in the silence. Tiny crackles sing with each step; he presses his weight with surprising care, seeking to destroy nothing, barely perturbing the ground at all.

Here, he's different, fully inhabiting a place he knows and loves. He's thoughtful and self-possessed, so much so he is nearly unrecognizable from the raging monster. Indeed, he is almost human.

She finds herself wanting to know more about him.

Out of curiosity, she crouches silently and scoops up a handful of snow. Squeezing it in her palms, she waits until he has his back turned completely to her before she chucks it at him. The snowball lands perfectly between those big shoulders, hitting his fur with a satisfying _whump_.

He stumbles forward a little, less from force than surprise, and then he lets out a strange little growling sound, shoulders shaking with it. It takes her a moment to realize it's a _laugh_. She picks up a second snowball and hucks it at him. His responding growl is even less guttural this time.

Sweeping down, he gathers his own armful of snow. " _You have made a grave mistake, ma chérie._ "

The pet name is sufficiently distracting that she does not move when he chucks his snow-boulder at her. She goes down with an _oomph_ as it knocks her clean off her feet.

His laugh is big and unmistakable this time, but even it is not enough to stop her from pushing herself back up and engaging in a spirited retaliation.

* * *

Sitting inside the foyer, Cisco aches to know how things are going between Barry and _Belle_. He promised himself he would not interrupt -- he must let them bond naturally, if they are to have any hope of making this work -- but he knows just how brutish Barry can be, and how quickly his temper can turn. Afraid of a misstep at any moment, he is tense and anxious to know more when suddenly The Beast roars.

Cisco scrambles to his feet and throws open the door. Before he can take a single step, _Houblon_ barks and charges past him, plowing through the snow with a gusto Cisco can scarcely match as he chases the source of the sound. " _Houblon!_ " he orders, tearing after the dog. "Come back here, you silly animal!"

Baying, _Houblon_ scarcely pauses as he zips around a snowy corner, leaping gleefully into the fray. Cisco is just in time to watch: skidding around the same corner, he sees _Houblon_ run full-tilt towards his target, pouncing and smashing into Barry's chest, knocking the five-hundred-pound Beast to the ground.

At first, Cisco gets a horrible feeling: relief at seeing the master sparring with worry for his well-being. It's the same feeling he had when Barry went out for a walk one day and came back with a deep scratch under an eye from a dire wolf encounter. Before Cisco can voice his concern, a low growl builds in Barry's chest and Cisco's concern shifts to _Houblon_ , convinced the footstool is about to be shredded to pieces.

With a breathless gasp, Barry says, "This dog will be the death of me."

As he struggles to sweep up the footstool, he roars when _Houblon_ starts bouncing on top of him. It takes Cisco a moment to realize he's not in pain at all. He's _laughing_.

It's been six months since he's heard Barry laugh.

For her part, _Belle's_ laughter leaves no ambiguity.

* * *

"My friends, please. One arm," _Rouge_ bargains. "One _hand_."

 _Dent_ snaps its jaws at its fellow grey-coated dire wolf. "No."

 _Rouge_ bears its teeth, frustration clear. "Why not?"

"We are not to strike unless The Beast strikes."

Snarling, _Rouge_ points out, "It nearly killed me."

 _Griffe_ regards its kin dispassionately, lying flat on its belly on a nearby snowbank. "Nearly."

"The less we make ourselves known, the weaker we are perceived to be," _Rouge_ snaps. "We must retaliate."

"Then kill something," _Dent_ dismisses. "Get it off your chest."

"That will do nothing to The Beast," _Rouge_ refutes.

"Then kill its human," _Griffe_ submits flatly. "If your bloodthirst is so strong, exercise it there."

"The Beast will protect it," _Rouge_ warns.

Rising, _Griffe_ shakes out its coat impatiently. "We are your siblings. We will protect you." Looking at _Dent_ , it asks, "Yes?"

 _Dent_ growls. "Fine," it permits.

 _Rouge_ straightens, relieved. "Come. Let us be on our way _._ " The dire wolf takes off.

On its heels, _Dent_ and _Griffe_ follow.

* * *

Sitting in the snow, Iris tosses a snowball at The Beast absentmindedly. He doesn't duck, just lets it shatter against his left shoulder lightly. " _You must think I am made of glass_ ," he muses.

Pulling her legs up to her chest, Iris replies, "It is nice to see you are not made of wrath."

Humming thoughtfully, he scoops up a generous handful of snow and says, " _Am I not?_ "

"If I catch cold, I will scarcely be suitable for travel," she warns. He drops the snow, leaning his back more against the garden wall, legs canted in a mimicry of her pose, knees-to-chest.

" _The journey is short. That is what makes it dangerous. We will not tire the wolves_." Exhaling clouds of white, he explains, " _Odds are good that they will not bother you. It is morning. Even they must rest._ " Looking up at the fractionally brighter sky, he adds, " _They have not bothered me in some time. They should not bother you again, now that they know you are ... in my care._ "

Iris cannot read his tone, but she assures, "For not much longer."

He tips his head in a nod. After a long pause, he continues. " _They are siblings, but they do not attack together. They guard three different points of the grounds, close enough that should one come to harm, the others could be at its side almost immediately. I confess I am surprised that they did not come to_ Rouge's _aid._ "

" _Rouge_?" Iris repeats.

" _The wolf we ... met,_ " he finishes lamely, searching for a tamer adjective than _caught_ or _almost killed_. " _It is unlike them, to allow one of their own to be harassed._ " With a sharp edge, he admits, " _Killing it would have been the wisest course. These are not ordinary wolves._ "

"Talking wolves," Iris agrees.

The Beast looks at her, unblinking. " _Dire wolves. Strong enough to kill a Beast._ "

A shiver passes through her; she angles her cloak a little more tightly around her. "How have they not killed you?"

" _I have given them no reason to. And they know that I will not succumb without taking at least one of them with me. They're powerful, but I ... am not a gentle creature._ "

Iris holds her tongue, unable to deny him, but unwilling to confer agreement, either. She is so quiet that he begins to shuffle anxiously, nearly rising before she says in a low voice, "I do not want harm to befall you."

He pauses. " _You wish to return home?_ " Iris nods. " _Then it is a necessary risk. As I said: they do not bother me._ " He reaches up almost unconsciously towards his left eye, and Iris sees the faintest discontinuity of fur there, like a scar. " _Most days. Let us hope they have chosen to sleep late today._ " Rising, he dusts himself off. Iris mirrors him, surprised at how civil he is, very much a prince attending his appearance. " _Come. We must prepare._ "

* * *

"How does it snow here, in summer?" Wally asks in wonder, tilting his head back to look at the frosted trees.

Joe advises, "Keep your voice down. There are wolves in these parts."

Wally points out, "That is why we brought guns, is it not?"

"We brought those for The Beast. Hopefully we will not need them for wolves, too."

"I do not particularly enjoy killing," Wally admits. "Hopefully we will not need them for your Beast, either."

Disgruntled, sleepless and anxious, Joe says, "He's not _my Beast_. But he has my daughter."

" _A lovely girl_ ," a low voice observes. Grey whinnies, and Volo snorts anxiously. " _A beautiful specimen. She must taste ... exquisite_."

"Show yourself, Beast," Wally commands.

With a harsh laugh, a wolf of twice its kin's size steps out of the trees. " _Oh, little boy_ ," it croons. " _How far are you from home?_ "

Joe takes hold of Volo's reins as Wally levels his gun at the animal. "Do not make me shoot," he says. "I do not wish to harm you. We are not here for you."

" _All humans are here for wolves. Our pelts make fine rugs. Our meat makes fine meals. Our heads adorn your walls._ " Teeth bared, it snaps, " _You drive us to the very edge and expect hospitality?_ "

" _All humans are the same_ ," another voice agrees, a second wolf approaching from their west flank. Volo whickers; Grey tugs anxiously at the reins. " _Greedy, violent, terrible brutes._ "

" _Wolves are civil_ ," a third wolf simpers, drawing upon them from the east. " _We do not kill every creature that comes into our midst. We kill only those we need to._ " Lowering its head, it says, " _But the elk have not passed through in some time. Our needs grow sharper by the day._ "

" _Leave your horses,_ " advises the first wolf.

" _We will make it quick_ ," assures the third.

The second lowers its head and says nothing. _I won't_ is clear in its eyes.

Wally asks in a low voice, "What should we do?"

" _Whichever of us you shoot, our siblings will avenge it_ ," the first wolf assures. " _Please. Try. You cannot hurt us._ "

"Are you implying that you're invincible?" Wally retorts.

" _I'm implying that you're a terrible shot_ ," the first wolf retorts. " _Try._ "

"Do not shoot," Joe warns.

The wolves on either flank close in. " _We have been so hospitable_ ," the east wolf says.

" _Yet your bullheadedness will be your undoing_ ," the west wolf finishes.

A thunderous rapport shatters the tense quiet. Both horses startle, and it is all Joe and Wally can do to keep their saddles as the wolves snap and wheel. "I didn't fire!" Wally shouts over the commotion as another cannon-like rapport nearly shatters a tree, followed by a third, and fourth.

Under fire, the wolves vanish silently into the trees.

"What _magnificent_ beasts! Did I kill any of them?" a familiar voice thunders.

Joe groans. "Hunter," he elaborates to Wally's confused frown. "Zolomon," he adds explanatorily, realizing after a moment that _hunter_ is an occupation.

"Well! Fancy finding you here, Joseph," Zolomon says, bringing his black warhorse to a halt. "And in something of a tangle, aren't you? Tell me where the beasts have gone and I will slay them all!"

Drawing up nearby, his servant sits on a far less impressive brown pony. "Your Excellency, is that really the best idea?"

"Quiet, _Le Fou_. Never mind, I shall find the beasts myself!" Zolomon determines, kicking his horse into a trot. "To the hunt!" he declares in a carrying voice, his servant hastening after him on horseback.

Turning to Joe, Wally remarks, "He'll kill them all, won't he?"

Joe says grimly, "He will try."

* * *

A gunshot -- a series of gunshots -- makes Barry still, halfway to the stairs. _Belle_ pauses mid-step, turning back towards the gates and the woods surrounding them.

"Company," Barry announces grimly.

"If it's my father, he may be hurt," _Belle_ says, moving towards the gate.

" _Belle--"_

"I have to find him."

He takes her arm carefully, bringing her to a halt. She looks up at him in disbelief. He says slowly, "Permit me to search on my own."

"Absolutely not. He's my father."

"You are in my care. If I bring you with me, I will have two backs to watch. Stay. For the moment. I shall return as swiftly as I can." He lets her go and she looks up at him, holding his gaze for a long moment.

"Be careful," she advises. "I suspect none of them will be friendly towards you, wolves or men."

"It wouldn't be the first time," Barry admits, shoulders slouching a little in relief. "Stay here." Pressing open the doors to the castle, he directs her inside. "Please," he adds for good measure.

She looks at him. He cannot read her, but he can fool himself into thinking the softness in her eyes is concern for him. "Don't hurt him," she says at last, and he ignores the way disappointment sticks in his ribcage as he nods once and shuts the doors behind him, taking off into the woods.

* * *

The wolves are not hard to find.

"What happened?" Barry asks, stepping into their midst, scarcely a quarter-mile from the castle.

 _Dent_ looks at him. " _Humans._ " Then, stepping towards him, the wolf demands, " _We are your providence,_ Beast _. Are you not here to protect us?_ "

He wants to snarl, but he jerks a head in a nod. "Our agreement is such," he concurs, even though _Rouge_ looks at him with fire in its eyes, ready to kill.

" _Even if there have been ... lapses,_ " _Griffe_ points out, looking him in the eye -- just beneath the left, as it were. Its pride at the scar is clear even from here. Barry does not tear into old wounds; he cannot afford to, not with all three wolves in one place.

"Even so," he agrees, looking at _Rouge_ , who merely stares at him in silent condemnation. "Do not confront the humans. They are far more dangerous than I am."

" _They have guns_ ," _Griffe_ warns.

"I know. Avoid them."

 _Dent_ steps forward slowly. "If you are here," it asks, "who protects _your_ human?"

He narrows his eyes. "My family."

 _Rouge_ snaps its jaws. "Family? You have none. Only furniture."

Barry takes a single step forward and _Dent_ and _Griffe_ flank _Rouge_. " _Careful, Beast,_ " _Griffe_ warns. " _Wouldn't want to stir up harsh feelings._ "

Barry steps back. "Stay low. I'll take care of them," he says.

" _Good luck with that_ ," _Dent_ says, taking off and taking its siblings with it.

Uneasy about putting his back to them, Barry nevertheless must as he ventures deeper into the woods, searching for _Belle's_ father.

* * *

" _What_ a _view!_ " Hunter shouts. " _Le Fou_ , come look at this!"

Struggling up the watchtower, Hartley asks, "Is this advisable? Our horses..."

"The wolves will not bother them," Hunter dismisses, gun slung over one shoulder. "Can you believe it? My future abode!"

"You wish to live here?" Hartley asks, disbelieving. "But it is so ... cold. And dreary."

"A little cold snap, nothing more," Hunter dismisses. "It must be _marvelous_ in the spring. Look at the size of this! _A Beast_ has taken Joseph's daughter, indeed!" Chortling, he swings around the edge of the wall, climbing back down the interior side. "Come, come, _Le Fou!_ Let us go reclaim my future wife. She has already found our new home!"

Hartley looks longingly down at the horses tethered to the outside of the gate. "Yes, Your Highness."

* * *

Given a two-mile radius, there are twelve square miles of woods to search.

Barry saunters on as quickly as he dares, ears pricked to the slightest sound of horses' hooves. After an interminable time, he hears them approaching, taking refuge behind a tree as _Belle's_ father approaches -- with a fellow on a horse at his side. He hears them halt and a gun clicks. "Step forward," _Belle's_ father commands.

Barry does as he's told, moving as nonthreateningly as he can into the open. "I'm not going to hurt you," he tells them in a low tone.

"The wolves said the same. We believed them as much as we believe you," the fellow at his side warns, barrel trained on him.

Glancing dismissively at him, Barry warns, "You do not want to do that."

"Where is my daughter?" _Belle's_ father demands.

"At the castle, where you left her."

The bullet misses, but Barry stays behind cover, standing near a tree. "Not very civil," he says caustically. "I'm here to _help_."

"You will stay out of our way, or you will die," _Belle's_ father snaps.

"You'll last ten seconds against the wolves," Barry warns, "and that is twice as long as you will live if they do not laugh at you first."

"We'll take our chances."

"You're making a mistake."

"If you twitch, you'll be making a far graver one."

Barry exhales deeply, anger rising to the surface. "You expect me to stay here while you break into my castle?"

"You can do so with or without a bullet in your heart, Beast. It is your choice."

With a deep breath, Barry steps out from his hiding space. "I choose neither."

Then he charges the white mare.

* * *

"Iris! Sun and stars, where have you gone?"

 _Iris?_ Cisco mouths to Caitlin, who shrugs.

"He seeks a flower?" she whispers.

"He's even madder than Barry."

Leveling a flat look at him, Caitlin leans towards the edge of the stairs, glancing down at the stranger in the foyer. He's tall and clad in a brilliant red soldier's uniform, bearing polished black boots and a gun across his back. His posture is that of a man who drowns puppies who displease him.

For her part, _Belle_ is nowhere in sight.

Clearly tense, the master had brought her inside minutes before and commanded her to stay before taking off. Cisco had deflated a little when he heard the news -- he had thought they were getting along so _well_ ; he'd even rehearsed a new dining song with the spoons -- but then Caitlin had hopped into the kitchens and told him the news. _Something's changed._

They'd scarcely reached the stairs before the man threw open the doors and strode inside, a shorter man trailing after him. For his part, the servant looked exasperated and exhausted; clearly not the mastermind.

"What do we do?" Cisco whispers now, hurrying along as the stranger approaches the stairs.

"Wait for the master," Caitlin replies.

"That is a terrible plan! He is coming right now!"

At that very moment, with a powerful bark, _Houblon_ goes plunging headlong across the foyer, charging their new guests and launching himself at the stranger's chest.

" _Houblon, no!_ " Caitlin and Cisco cry at the same time.

* * *

In the mind of a footstool passes a single thought:

 _Houblon,_ yes.

* * *

Hartley shrieks as a footstool attacks Hunter; Hunter's reaction is scarcely less reactionary, bellowing and swearing as he goes down. "What in the _devil's_ name is this infernal creature?" he snaps. He scarcely touches it before the footstool hops off his chest and scrambles over to Hartley, barking loudly.

Taking off full-tilt, Hartley calls behind him, "Go away, go away, go away, go away!"

* * *

"We must do something!" Caitlin urges. "This is not how we greet guests!"

"Hold on, I am enjoying this," Cisco says, beaming as _Houblon_ finally takes the servant's legs out from under him. "I love that dog!" he laughs, sound masked by the renewed shrieks below.

* * *

Standing in a side-room, Iris dares to peer around the corner as she hears _Houblon's_ feet scrambling across the floor, his barks echoing off the tall ceiling as he tackles Hunter.

Smiling to herself, she lets it have at them for a long moment, sliding back out of sight when Hunter regains his feet with a furious expletive. "I hate dogs," he snaps. " _Le Fou_ , kill it and be done with it."

Trembling, his servant whimpers, "Pl-please get it o-o-off me."

Hunter storms across the floor and makes an unsuccessful snatch for _Houblon_. Still barking, the footstool charges off, peeling across the floor towards her, and she cannot stifle an _oomph_ as he jumps into her arms.

Immediately distracted, Hunter calls, "Iris?"

Closing her eyes, Iris hugs the footstool to her chin for moral support before setting it down. " _Go to Cisco_ ," she tells it, as it jumps up and down, wriggling excitedly. With a happy bark, _Houblon_ takes off, charging past Hunter -- she knows because he swears again loudly -- before taking the stairs at a truly astonishing pace.

"Infernal -- _Iris_ ," Hunter exclaims, sweeping forward when he sees her. "Thank God! I thought you were eaten by the chair." He moves to hug her and she just dances out of reach, sliding into a smooth curtsey to gloss over the movement.

"Monsieur Zolomon. What brings you here?"

Observing decorum with magisterial pomp, Hunter bows. "I have come to rescue my wife," he tells her, righting. "But now that I am here, I see that you need no rescuing! This place is marvelous. Yes, we will have to burn all of the chairs first, but the rest -- _well done_ , Iris!"

"Where's my father? Did he send you?"

Nodding sagely, Zolomon replies, "He insisted you were being held hostage by a Beast. Pah! What a _beast_." He holds out his arms to encompass the castle. "If you wished to keep it a surprise from me, you need only have said so!"

Iris frowns. "My father -- he isn't here?"

"Do you see him?" Zolomon proposes, making a show of turning in a circle. Stepping forward, he takes her arms in his hands. "My dear Iris, he wanted to send only the swiftest, strongest, most daring man to your rescue. The moment he submitted his petition, I mounted my horse and took flight! I confess I had to fight several very large wolves to do so." Hoisting his gun, he adds, "Fear not! Scared them off. Soon their pelts will adorn our floors!"

Iris tries to subtly disengage from his embrace, but Hunter does not relent, and short of attacking him, there's little else she can do. "I must get back to my father," she tells him, not at all apologetic. "It was -- noble of you to come, but he will worry--"

"I am _certain_ he can withstand to be apart from his daughter for a moment!" Hunter laughs. "Come, _Belle_ , you are--OUCH." Jerking away from her, he kicks and misses the candelabra hopping out of reach, his breeches singed at the ankle. "What on Earth--"

" _Bonjour!_ " Cisco chimes. Caitlin glares as she waddles up to his side.

" _Cisco,_ " she snaps warningly.

"I'm leaving," Hunter's servant announces loudly, doors snapping shut smartly behind him.

With a sharp huff, Hunter steps back and tugs his collar. He looks visibly disarmed. "Well. We shall be burning a lot of furniture to make this place habitable."

"Well ahead of you!" Cisco proclaims, waving a candlelit arm. "You see? It is a joke, because I am a candela--"

A roar from deep in the woods silences all conversation, followed by the screaming of a horse.

Eloquently, Hunter says, "Ah. _That_ must be your Beast."

Against orders, Iris bolts for the doors and takes off into the woods after them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mon ami_ = My (male) friend.  
>  _Houblon_ = Hops!  
>  _Ma chérie_ = My dear.  
>  _Rouge_ = Red.  
>  _Dent_ = Tooth.  
>  _Griffe_ = Claw.
> 
> Side note: the dire wolves have no conceptualization of gender, hence the use of "it/its" as the sole pronouns.


	8. Chapter 8

"Master," Cisco gasps, hopping forward anxiously, "what happened?"

Dragging his bleeding left foot across the foyer, Barry pants heavily.

In three steps, he drops in a dead faint to the floor.

* * *

 _Forty-five-minutes_ _prior_.

The Beast charges the white mare.

Both horses panic, rearing and defying their rider's attempts to control them. Neither man can get in a shot, entirely focused on keeping their seats. Roaring to further panic the beasts, Barry closes in on them. It is exactly as Barry planned: a powerful bluff. He never lays a paw on either animal, but both respond as if he were about to strike, throwing their heads and screaming in fear.

When the white mare lunges back powerfully, wheeling and whinnying, her rider loses his seat, unable to balance gun and reins. The second the weight disappears from her back, the horse takes flight, disappearing into the brush. Shouting after her, _Belle's_ father strains to keep his grey horse under some semblance of control, unable to help his companion as The Beast stalks towards him. He makes a point of crushing the fallen gun underfoot.

Pausing feet away from his quarry, Barry crouches, lowering himself from a terrifying eight-foot beast to one just shy of six, far from diminutive. "I'm not going to hurt you," he promises in a low voice, "and I need you to extend me the same courtesy."

Gasping, the boy keeps his back to a tree and defies, "You're absolutely mad."

"If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead," Barry points out. The grey horse refuses to cooperate, whinnying and seizing up whenever _Belle's_ father attempts to get it to approach, backing step-by-step. "Why would I keep you alive, if only to break my word?"

"Why does any beast act?" the boy retorts. "The sly fox, the clever wolf -- your silver tongue hides nothing." His gaze flits compulsively over to his companion. Whickering, the grey horse halts at the edge of their sight, breath steaming as it stamps its forefoot anxiously. Dismounting, its rider tethers it to a tree, stalking forward.

"Get away from him," _Belle's_ father snaps, lofting a gun at him.

Barry does what he must: ignoring the boy's shout and protesting fists, Barry grabs him by the shirt and yanks him upright. "Shoot me, you shoot him," he says, pinning the boy in front of him.

 _Belle's_ father trains the gun at his head, still towering above the boy's. "So certain?"

In response, Barry sinks back onto his haunches, putting him behind his target. Straightening, he trains his gaze on _Belle's_ father and says, "You would risk his life for a chance at taking mine?"

"Shoot him," the boy entreats.

"I will not shoot you," the man snaps back. "Release him."

"As he is my sole bargaining chip," Barry reasons, "no."

With a disgusted sound, _Belle's_ father lowers his gun. With a slight incline of his head towards one side, Barry waits until he throws it down before releasing his bargaining chip. The boy scrambles, placing himself out of reach. In two powerful strides, Barry places himself on top of the gun _Belle's_ father reaches for. "Now," he says, looming over the man. "Your daughter."

Recognizing the futility of reclaiming his weapon, _Belle's_ father steps back. "If you think I will not make good on my word, you will be terribly mistaken."

_If you hurt her, I will slaughter you._

"I have not hurt your daughter," Barry says, keeping his tone calm with an effort. The mere accusation annoys him more than he dares to show. _I would never hurt her_. He doesn't bother to mention the fact that he saved her life. _Belle's_ father does not look like a man to be 'fooled' by such stories. "Let me take you to her."

The boy scoffs. "Do you hear this?" he asks _Belle's_ father.

The man does not share his open disbelief, gaze drifting to Barry's foot, still pressed to the cold metal of the gun.

Self-consciously, Barry has the urge to hide his paw from _Belle's_ father. He knows that he is not a man, but if he wears a cloak, then from haunch to shoulder he can pass for one. Above the collar, his horned head ruins the effect; below the hips, his tail and wolfishly arched feet shatter the illusion. Despite appearances, his heart is human. To be perceived as otherwise is strangely disarming: his claws seem mutinous, his bullish size unfair play.

Looking at _Belle's_ father, he cannot bring himself to crush the gun. Guilt twists in his chest as he tries to shrink before the man to a more respectable height. It's foolish, but privately he wishes he could convey a simple idea: _I'm human._

The best he can do is crouch on his haunches, which feels demeaning. Keeping his stance, he swallows arguments to the contrary.

_You are not a man. You are a Beast._

Once _Belle_ leaves, this is the life he will lead. It hurts far more than he wants to admit.

Without breaking his gaze, _Belle's_ father says slowly, "Take us to her."

Wary but needing to show a sense of human courtesy, Barry steps back, leaving the gun where it is. The boy looks between them before carefully leaning down to pick it up, hurrying back to a safe distance by _Belle's_ father's side. He lifts it and points it at Barry's chest, but _Belle's_ father puts a hand on it, silently denying his offer. He's grateful that he doesn't snarl; it would do nothing to elevate their opinion of him.

_You shouldn't care. They'll leave._

_And soon enough, so will_ Belle.

Refusing to entertain the thought, Barry steps back again. _I'm not going to hurt you_.

Walking over to the grey stallion, _Belle's_ father reclaims the saddle, warning, "Try anything, Beast, and we will not hesitate."

Nodding once in terse understanding, Barry puts his back to them. "This way."

* * *

"That went well!"

"That was a disaster," Caitlin says flatly, staring out the window.

Cisco hops up beside her, following her gaze to the men at the gate. " _L'homme ennuyant_ left, did he not?"

"So did _Belle_."

"She will return!" Cisco assures. "I am certain!"

Caitlin watches the servant argue with his master before both take to the open gates, disappearing through them. "She will come to great harm if the wolves find her."

"She is sly as a fox! They will not find her."

"Wolves kill foxes."

"Quick as a cas-so-wary!"

"What on Earth is that?"

"A bird," Cisco says gravely. " _Un oiseau terrifiant._ "

* * *

"Is one woman worth all this trouble?" Hartley asks, exasperated and tired.

"It is no longer a question of worth. I did not come this far to return empty-handed," Hunter replies sharply, mounting his horse.

"Perhaps we should rest before making any brash decisions," Hartley advises, mirroring him.

Hunter pins the pony hard against the wall, making him whicker in discomfort. Hartley holds his own tongue, but it is too late. "Brash?" Hunter repeats ferociously. "You mean to imply I am out of my wits?"

"No -- I mean solely to imply--"

Hunter yanks a handgun from his belt and plants it hard between Hartley's ribs. Hartley's breath halts in his chest, heart pounding.

"Perhaps you could keep your _implications_ to yourself," Hunter warns scathingly.

Nodding wordlessly, Hartley waits in tense silence for a gunshot, relaxing when Hunter retracts and replaces his weapon on his belt. Pulling his horse away hard, he snaps, "Come. Or I will feed you to the wolves myself."

Duly humbled, Hartley trails along silently, rubbing the sore spot between his ribs and pushing the pony to keep up with the warhorse thundering away.

* * *

Iris doesn't think; she just runs.

The Beast's roar alarms her, but it is the screaming horses which set her heart pounding. She _knows_ that sound. Foolish though it may seem, she is certain she recognizes its owner -- from a dream, it seems, almost twenty years ago.

_The bear roared; Grey screamed--_

The memory stirs a visceral reaction -- she plunges through trees and across brush, moving as quickly as she can, because if _Grey_ is here, it can mean only one thing --

 _Father_.

The cacophony dies before she reaches them. She pelts down the same path as before, slowing to a halt when she sees the tracks in the snow. An equally visceral reaction stirs in her gut at the sight. She hears voices in the distance, approaching slowly.

" _Do you hear that?"_

" _Hear what?_ "

" _The silence."_

 _"_ _Our Beast has resolved the problem._ "

" _Or our problem has resolved The Beast._ "

" _Can any man take down that monster?_ "

" _Nonsense. I heard no guns._ "

" _He grows soft. He probably let them cut him down._ "

" _We should finish the task at hand._ "

" _Do you smell that?_ "

Iris is already halfway up the tree when all three wolves pause. She climbs carefully, but branches crackle. She swallows and chooses a seat as well-hidden as she can find it, hugging the trunk.

" _The girl._ "

" _Horses and humans. It has been too long since I have known a full belly_."

" _We must catch them first._ "

" _You doubt me?_ " Right below her, the first wolf finishes, " _You shouldn't._ " Looking up at her, the wolf stands, putting its paws on the trunk and snapping at her. " _Come down, little girl, or I will come get you myself._ "

Frozen with fear, Iris still finds the breath to gasp, "Wolves ... cannot climb."

" _Dires do not observe the laws of ordinary wolves_ ," the second wolf dismisses.

Clawing up the bark, the first wolf simpers. " _You think you can escape us forever?_ " Backing off, it continues, " _Fool_."

Disappearing in the brush, it turns and charges. Iris has no time to react as a flying grey mass powers in three effortless strides up to the lowest branch of the tree, claws digging in with an audible series of cracks. In one more leap, it will be upon her.

" _Now_ ," the wolf says, leering up at her, " _we can be civil, or we can be difficult. What do you choose?_ "

* * *

Over the steady hoof beats of the grey horse, Barry can hear nothing of wolves or men.

It does not set him at ease.

 _Belle's_ father and his companion stay quiet, humbled by the woods and what they hold. Barry offers no consolation. The woods, even beyond this deadly frozen kingdom, are no place for men. They are intermediate spaces, forgotten realms of existence. Humans set them aside when they moved into stone houses and stoked fireplaces, developing weaker hearts for bloodshed. The woods are where beasts belong and humans tread lightly, where wolves kill humans, and humans kill wolves.

Barry does not like that he can find no hint of either. Even though he dreads every step towards the castle, he aches for its walls and the people within them.

Then he hears -- scratching on wood. He holds up a paw to halt _Belle's_ father and the grey horse. The boy, walking alongside, stills. Listening closely, he closes his eyes, straining to hear the sound again.

A piercing scream sends him into a dead sprint towards the sound, outpacing horse and man behind him.

* * *

In the tree, Barry can see two wolves.

They have no reason to be there, but one.

Seeing red, Barry roars and nearly breaks the back of the third wolf standing guard at the base of the tree. Up above, he cannot tell what is happening, but a grey wolf the size of a man drops from the branches, landing upon him and snapping at his neck.

The grounded wolf latches onto his leg, teeth sinking deep. He roars at it as he sinks a paw into the formerly treed wolf's neck and throws it. It hits a different tree hard, throwing itself back to its feet and snapping loudly, " _Rouge!_ "

 _Dent_ gnaws unrelentingly at his haunch, jaw clamping and releasing as Barry gets his hands on the trunk of the tree. Let the dog hang; he jumps and claims the lowest branch, hauling himself up. _Griffe_ launches himself at them and lands on his back, gnawing at his neck with such ferocity his teeth punch through fur and muscle.

Roaring, Barry surrenders his hold. _Griffe_ gets caught underneath him; _Dent_ shakes his head, teeth to the bone, and Barry hears a terrible sound building in him as the pain mounts.

With a roar, he gets his paws around _Dent's_ head. The wolf lets go of his leg, a sharp tearing pressure that sends nails against Barry's teeth.  _Dent_ snaps at him, lunging for his head. The wolf behind him squirms violently, straining to join its sibling as he struggles upright. He'll die if he doesn't get off his back -- _now_.

They each weigh twice as much as an ordinary man, but he has still more combined weight than they do and puts every ounce of it to use. _Dent_ is elusive and quick, hard to grab and all sharp teeth when Barry succeeds, but he only needs a grip, however painful, to give him the chance to stand. Arching upright, wolf in hand by the throat, the wolf's jaw locked around his paw in a grip that makes half of it go numb, he roars when _Griffe_ leaps upright and seizes the arm locked in _Dent's_ grip.

" _Rouge_ ," _Griffe_ roars against his skin. As the dires drag him away from his target, Barry digs his feet in deep, refusing to go down. His left leg aches abominably, and _he_ knows and he has to hope the wolves do not surmise that another bite will take him down. Too committed to their grips, they hang onto his right arm, pulling hard.

A thunderous rapport almost makes him lose his footing. The gunshot precedes the whinnying of horses as they thunder into view. At first, Barry thinks it's _Belle's_ father and his companion, silently praising whatever God looks after him that he didn't destroy the gun, but then the black warhorse comes into view and a gun points right at him.

_Wonderful._

A great grey mass falls heavily upon the rider, nearly unseating the man. A single shot is all it takes to silence the wolf.

Immediate supersession kicks in. As one, _Dent_ and _Griffe_ release him. Barry stumbles and falls, roaring in pain when his leg gets caught underneath him. He aches to climb the tree, to find _Belle --_ for it must be her, it can only be her -- but the wolves charge the stranger's horse, _Griffe_ lunging at the rider, still bearing the body of its dead sibling, and _Den_ _t_ going for the horse.

Something in his gut tells Barry not to act, but he can't let the wolves reign supreme. Shoving himself to his feet, he grits his teeth as his left leg scarcely supports him, fire coursing down his spine with every step. He can feel every puncture wound, deep bruises that bleed, and he wants to slow down, to sit, but he cannot afford it -- the wolves do not rest, and neither can he.

The wolves fight, _Rouge's_ deadweight in the saddle simultaneously impeding and saving the life of the man in it. _Griffe_ cannot work entirely around the wolf's body, and thus cannot get a proper grip on the man to yank him down. He does snap at him, preventing him from firing a gun. Locked in a stalemate, neither of them can win.

Decisively, Barry charges forward. Pandemonium erupts: the black warhorse drops to his knees; the pony nearby reels and screams; the wolves snarl; the man in the saddle roars and wrestles his former prey. The noise is catastrophic, making it impossible to tell who is screaming, or indeed if anyone is not. All at once, the warhorse collapses and _Dent_ dances out of the way.

With time only to grab _Griffe_ , Barry yanks the wolf off the man's dying animal, and _Dent_ turns upon him.

Staggering back with a wolf in one hand and a second charging him, Barry catches a glimpse of someone in the trees watching him, red dress masking potential injuries. " _Belle!_ " he calls, unsure if he is warning her to stay there or come down and run, and then _Dent_ sinks its teeth into his left leg and hauls on it hard.

There is no water, but his head is plunged beneath its proverbial surface as his hearing disconnects, muffling all sound. He sees himself beating the wolf's head, massive, damaging blows that the wolf must bargain its life against to sustain, but the wolf doesn't let go, and its sibling tears from his grip and charges the man. Barry sees the man rise from his steed, a gun raised towards them, and he knows _Griffe_ sees it, too, knows what must be coming, but the wolf does not relent.

Strangling on a breath, he shouts, " _No!_ "

The gun fires and misses, and _Griffe_ tackles the man.

A second gunshot throws the wolf off, and the boy accompanying _Belle's_ father approaches slowly, gun lofted, and watches the wolf reclaim its feet, shoulder bleeding sluggishly. Realizing just how outnumbered it is, _Griffe_ takes one look at them before taking off.

At the very same instant, _Dent_ lets go and bolts for its life into the woods after its sole surviving sibling, narrowly escaping another shot from the hunter in the saddle.

In the calamity, Barry collapses onto his back, left leg bleeding mortally, and watches the very man he saved approach him, standing over him. He levels a gun at him, and Barry stares at the barrel, at the man wielding the gun, and begs his humanness to show.

 _You would not kill a man who saved you_ , he thinks, and then the man's head jerks back, redirecting to the tree.

Barry aches, but he has no choice but to push to his feet, knocking over the man and fleeing like the wolf he is.

* * *

At his den, The Beast staggers inside and collapses in front of a horrified clock and candelabra.

* * *

It happens so:

The wolf lunges and Iris screams. The wolf's teeth catch her dress and the fabric tears at the knee, breaking free. Not expecting the lack of resistance, the wolf loses its balance and falls. Already scrambling for a higher perch, Iris hears it hit the ground with a powerful _thud_ , its siblings converging anxiously before the wolf snaps and throws itself to its feet, rushing the tree before charging back to repeat its previous feat.

Without daring to look down, Iris scales the tree, ice making her hands slick, fear making her breath catch in her chest. She doesn't get very far, but the wolf struggles, too. It is one thing to jump to the first perch, another entirely to climb the narrow, iced-over branches higher and higher. The coordination escapes the wolf, and a second wolf joins it, perhaps assuming two can accomplish what one cannot. Sick with fear, Iris hugs the trunk, aware that she will get no higher and may injure herself grievously if she falls from here. Whether the fall kills her is almost irrelevant: the wolf at the base certainly will.

She nearly falls when a beast comes roaring out of the woods, throwing its weight at the third wolf at the very base of the tree. The first wolf doesn't relent, but the second quickly joins its sibling on the ground, attacking The Beast together.

_Dire wolves. Strong enough to kill a Beast._

She can only watch in helpless dismay as he struggles against them, straining ever towards her. He would be safer if he ran, even if only to divert the wolves, but his attention remains fixed on his target. When she hears hooves approaching she almost forgets the wolf on the branches just below her, silently assessing its next move.

A gunshot tears through the nearby branches, and a different fear washes over her. The hunter in charge presumes he will not miss, but Iris lacks his conviction. Fortunately for her, the wolf finally abandons his target to deal with this new threat, redirecting his attention entirely.

In one leap, and one percussive roar later, the wolf drops dead in the saddle.

The whole scene morphs as the wolves converge on the black horse and his rider. They bring down the poor beast, and the wolves nearly bring down the rider, too, but The Beast staggers towards them. He yanks the wolf from the man's saddle, giving him a chance to break free. The wolves drag The Beast away and she cannot find her voice, could not scream if she caught fire, but she can watch as they tear into him.

When the warhorse's rider stands, one of the wolves breaks free, charging him. She sees him level a gun and closes her eyes, knowing what's coming. Then a gunshot _precedes_ a wolfish snarl. In due horror, she opens her eyes in time to see the wolf tackle the man. It's over -- and then the wolf staggers under the impact of a different bullet.

In four seconds, the two wolves scatter. Iris' pounding heart does not slow. The man rises, and it registers unmistakably that Iris knows him from his bloody red coat.

 _Zolomon_.

He marches over to the downed Beast and lofts a gun at his head. At last, in desperation, Iris finds her own voice: " _No!_ "

Zolomon jerks towards her, and The Beast makes his escape.

"Iris?" Zolomon calls, but Iris ignores him, climbing down as quickly as she can. It takes an infuriatingly long time to reclaim the lowest branch, and once she is there Zolomon has caught on, standing beneath her and holding out his arms. "I will catch you," he assures her, and she would rather take her chances, but there's no time to argue. He keeps true to his word when she hops down, powerful grip breaking her fall and setting her down carefully. "Are you all right?" he asks, and he wordlessly strips the cloak from his servant and places it around her shoulders.

Dazed and half-frozen, she draws it tighter around her. From the brush, her father tramples forward, shouting, " _Iris!_ "

Practically throwing Hunter aside, he breaks through to her and throws his arms around her, hugging her tightly. His grip is strong, like the horse pawing near a tree just ten paces away. A boy stands with it, gun slung across his back. In panicked snorts, the brown pony makes its way to their side, and the boy wordlessly takes hold of its reins, too. He looks almost foolish, holding the two terrified horses and looking no less terrified himself, but Iris feels her father's embrace and knows all is well.

All is well.

Closing her eyes, she sinks into his arms, relief and fear warring. "Father," she says, and nothing else, tears building in her eyes. "Oh, Father."

"Iris, _Iris_ ," he breathes. "You're all right?"

Nodding, speechless, she says, "I'm all right." Inhaling and exhaling deeply, she aches to stay in his arms forever, to leave this terrible nightmare behind and return to good, safe provincial life.

Zolomon pipes in, " _Well!_ That was fun. Was it not, _Le Fou_?"

Somewhat timidly, his servant agrees mechanically, "Great fun, Your Highness."

Pulling away slowly from her father, Iris' gaze drifts inexorably to the dead: wolf and horse. The irony scarcely escapes her: predator and prey, killed by the avenging kin of their mortal enemies.

 _Rouge_.

The wolf that tried to kill her, that wounded The Beast -- and earned his mercy, at her imploring.

Stepping forward numbly, she ignores the hand her father puts on her shoulder to stop her, walking to the side of the wolf and crouching beside it and the horse. She reaches out, strokes the black warhorse's neck once, repeating the same for the wolf. Then she rises, shrugging out of her gift cloak and passing it back to the shivering servant. "Keep it," he says briskly, smile feigned. "It suits you."

She doubts that very much, but her argument dies on her tongue, surrounded by the carnage.

One character is noticeably absent from the stage:

 _The Beast_.

"Well," Zolomon says, and with both hands he hauls the dead dire wolf upright, scruffing it. "What a nice rug this will make."

Sick with fury, fear, and nameless worry, Iris turns to him and says sharply, "You will do no such thing."

"An exquisite specimen. Surely the largest wolf I have killed!" he chortles. "Isn't it magnificent? How the townsfolk will talk!"

"We have no room to carry a dead wolf," her father snaps. "We have barely two horses between the five of us."

" _Le Fou_ can walk," Zolomon says dismissively, tossing the wolf down like so much wood and striding over to the unfamiliar boy and his horses. "I'll take this one," he decides, taking up the reins of the grey horse.

The boy eludes him, pointing out in a neutral tone, "I believe your horse is _there_ , good sir" with a nod to the poor dead beast.

Iris breathes, "Grey," and rushes towards him, throwing her arms around his neck, tears finally pressing against it. "Oh, Grey, I've missed you."

"You _insolent_ boy," Zolomon says, a hand uplifted.

"If you touch him," her father says in a serious tone, "I will kill you."

Zolomon turns to him. There's a mad glint in his eyes -- a man who has perceived nothing to lose. " _You?_ You are no soldier." With a hard shove, he sets the horses whinnying, fearing a second bout of war. Iris rushes forward, but her father puts up a hand, righting himself. He still stands beneath the Distinguished Captain, but not by much.

"He may not be a soldier," the servant adds, holding a small handgun at arm's length, pointed at his master, "but one doesn't need to be a soldier to discharge a weapon."

Looking down at his belt, Zolomon looks back up and steams. "You stole--"

"You stole my cloak," the servant replies, gun clicking in hand. "Make your choice."

With a disgusted sound, Zolomon reels back, staring at all of them. "You think I have come all this way to walk away empty-handed?" he asks, fury sharpening his tone. He does not reach for his own gun -- the servant has not released him from the silent threat -- but he does kick the wolf once for good measure. "We will see who survives, and who dies," he says in a low voice, looking right at his servant.

Hard-eyed, his servant replies, "We will."

Turning his back to them, Zolomon storms off into the woods alone but for his gun.

No one settles until he is long gone, the woods falling eerily silent. Wordlessly, the former servant lowers his weapon, exhaling shakily. "I don't know what came over me," he admits, looking between them somewhat anxiously. "You must think I'm a dirty turncoat."

"I think you're a better man than you accredit yourself," Iris' father corrects, stepping forward and clasping him on the shoulder. "What is your name?"

"Hartley Rathaway."

"Thank you." Extending a hand, her father shakes Hartley's. "Come. It has been hours -- if we are to reach the village before nightfall, we must leave immediately. Two wolves will have a time fighting four of us," he adds.

The nameless worry floods Iris again. "The Beast," she says. When they look at her, she elaborates, "He's hurt."

"And?" the boy prompts dismissively.

" _And_ we have to help him," Iris insists, backing away, looking towards the distant castle. "Father, we--"

But he's already shaking his head. "He will be fine. Leave him to tend his castle. Before he changes his mind about _you_."

Straightening her shoulders, Iris insists, "He won't."

"We came all this way, and she does not wish to be rescued," the boy scoffs.

"Who is this man?" Iris demands.

"Wally."

She lifts her eyebrows. "Have you no surname?"

"Iris--" her father intercedes.

Wally glares. "None of importance."

Realization clicks: "You're illegitimate."

"Me, too," Hartley introduces, stepping forward and thrusting out a hand. Wally transfers the reins of both horses to one hand and shakes it slowly, not looking away from her. "It's uncommon to find a brother."

"Not a truth one shares over the open hearth, either," Wally adds caustically in her direction.

"I do not _care_ if you are 'legitimate' or not," Iris says in exasperation.

"Perhaps we can discuss this on the way home," her father proposes, clasping his hands.

Reality checked, Iris shakes her head. "The Beast--"

"Have you fallen in _love_ with this creature? Who cares what happens to him? He is a monster," Wally snaps, passing a horse off to her father.

"He's _not_ a monster," Iris snaps. "He saved my life!"

"After he almost took it," her father submits, frowning. "Daughter, I know you have flights of fancy, but this is surely the most fanciful. He _is_ a monster."

"Did you not see him with the wolves just now? He fought them!"

"Sure," Wally concedes, sizing up Hartley. "He also attacked Zolomon."

"He did _not_ attack him," Iris retorts heatedly. "He saved his life."

"Whatever you saw, I defy you to submit that he is anything other than a Beast."

Steaming but unable to find a quick retort, Iris shakes her head, stepping back. Wally turns to Hartley and says, "We can take turns on the pony. That will distribute the burden more evenly between us." Turning to her, he asks, "I don't suppose you wish to _walk_ home?" He holds out the reins of the grey horse.

When Iris doesn't take them, her father does. "Come, Daughter. You are in shock. We will be home by sundown, I will cook us a fine meal, and we will forget all about this Beast."

Iris finds her voice. "I cannot accompany you."

"Of course you can," her father insists, reaching out. "Dearest Iris--"

"Father, you know I love you more than anything on this Earth," Iris says, clasping his hand in both of hers. "But this is something I must do."

Straightening his shoulders with grim determination, her father says, "I will accompany you."

"No." When her father lifts his eyebrows disbelievingly, she squeezes his hand. "I can do this. He promised to get me to the edge of the woods. You should get them home." Releasing his hand slowly, she says, "I'm sorry. I have to do this. And when I am done, I will come home."

He looks at her for a long moment, assessing his options. "You will return?" he asks at last.

She nods.

"And I cannot stop you?"

She shakes her head.

He drags a hand down his face. "Very well," he allows at last. Throwing her arms around his neck, she hugs him tightly. He hugs her back with one arm, keeping the dancing-out-of-the-way Grey on his lead. "I love you," he tells her.

"I love you," she replies, letting go. "Let me do this. I can do this."

"I believe you."

She looks at Hartley, who shrugs, and Wally, who shakes his head. "You are the woman who talks to sheep, aren't you?" Wally asks.

A little smile tugs at her lips in spite of herself. "You should try it. They're excellent listeners."

Stepping forward, he passes the pony off to Hartley and shakes her hand. "Well. I may not agree with you, but if you are determined to walk this path, I wish you safe passage."

"We will get you to the castle," her father determines. "And then -- you may decide." There's a hopeful tone in his voice that she hates to dash, but she nods anyway.

"Thank you."

* * *

"I hate these tiny stick arms," Cisco says, prodding The Beast repeatedly with an unlit candle. _Houblon_ whines anxiously near his feet, shoving his leg until Cisco snaps, " _Houblon! No!_ "

Whining, the footstool backs off, sitting low nearby.

"If we cannot bandage the wound, he will bleed to death," Caitlin remarks worriedly. "As it stands, he's lost a lot of blood."

"Good thing he is a big beast," Cisco says, voice lacking its usual zeal as he prods unhopefully at The Beast's head. "Please, wake up, _mon ami._ You cannot leave us like this."

The door creaks open slowly and _Houblon_ perks up. Guarded, Cisco hops over and warns loudly, "I am a candelabra, I will light your cloak on fire."

"I hope not," a familiar voice says, rather breathlessly, and _Belle_ steps inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:
> 
>  _L'homme ennuyant_ = The annoying man.  
>  _Un oiseau terrifiant_ = A terrifying bird.  
>  _Mon ami_ = My friend.  
>  _Houblon_ = Hops.


	9. Chapter 9

Cisco remembers the day King Henry died.

Accompanied by Prince Julian Albert and Sir Fred Chrye, the King went out into the woods to fetch a boar for supper. He always believed in entertaining guests, and duck would not suffice for a visiting Duke and his entourage. Not when the King could lay claim to a far richer meal, if only he ventured a little way out into the woods.

His son, already a notoriously moody individual, opposed the decision, but even he could not overrule the King. Displeasure made clear, the Prince was forced to stand by as his King mounted his favorite horse and took off. The King's promise to return before dark offered little consolation.

Idling in the King's absence, Cisco kept his distance from the Prince as the latter entertained his father's guests. He knew better than to approach Barry when he was in one of his sharper moods. The Prince was at his most approachable ensconced in a book or idly examining the gardens. He was decidedly unfriendly that night as he awaited his father's return, breaking away to stare out a window as though he could bring him back by looking hard enough.

It was nearing dusk when Prince Julian finally returned to the castle, alone. The Prince of the King's own blood halted mid-conversation with the Duke to approach the unaccompanied man. Halfway across the foyer, Cisco could barely make out the words they exchanged. All he caught were Prince Julian's last lines:

" _There's been an accident. It's your father_."

He felt his own stomach sink. Nothing good ever came of those words. A horrible sense of dread overtook him as his mind offered up worst-case scenarios. As it would happen, they were scarcely far from the truth.

Without pausing to justify his response, Barry abandoned the floor and rushed out the doors at a dead sprint. There were horses he could have taken, but they had been unsaddled and stalled for the evening; taking time to prepare one was beyond his instinctive fight-or-flight response. On his own two legs, the Prince was one of the swiftest men Cisco had ever encountered, a natural runner.

Barry's response was perhaps the wisest course, for by the time the situation was explained, and the Duke's strong words to fetch the man himself were declined and affirmed and declined and reaffirmed, almost two hours had passed. Night was upon them, amplifying the difficulty of a search.

Standing as they were at the gates, they heard a shuffling sound from the woods, like a body being dragged, and Cisco could just see two men approaching, one leaning heavily on the other.

The Duke's offer was ultimately useful -- for he and Prince Julian would go off into the woods on the impossible hope of reviving, and more practical hope of reclaiming the body of, Sir Chrye -- but it had no impact on King Henry as his son half-carried, half-dragged the man back to the castle. Half a dozen servants rushed to take the King, carrying him inside, and Cisco was among them at his beloved King's side, ready to help. Then the Prince faltered, almost crashing into him, and Cisco abandoned his King to catch the King's son.

Heaving for breath, the Prince looked nearly as bad as his father. He was ashen-faced and covered in blood, breeches and shirt torn violently in places. His legs trembled as he tried to reclaim them, but he could not even stand without Cisco's assistance. Having run nearly six miles, half of them with a barely conscious king draped over his shoulder, he was near total collapse himself.

Still, with almost astonishing fury he wrestled back control from his flagging self and pushed off of him. Leaving a stunned Cisco behind, the Prince jogged after the party carrying his father into the castle, taking hold of his father's hand and gripping it tightly in both of his own. He spoke in hurried, almost neurotic sentences, imploring his father to live and raging against his choices in equal parts, mad with grief and fatigue. He was more beastly in that moment than Cisco had ever seen him, the exterior finally matching the interior design with wild eyes and a tense, angry frame, bullying his way wherever they went.

They laid King Henry to rest on a freshly turned bed. The doctors dutifully attended him, methodically confirming his passing and backing out of the room, one-by-one. When the last had said his piece and left, Cisco dared to approach the room where only the King and his son remained. The Prince was kneeling on the floor, hand still clutching his father's. The King's was limp and lifeless. Cisco knew without touching it that it was deathly cold.

When he said, "I'm so sorry," Barry did not respond. Afraid for him, but even more afraid to intrude, Cisco backed out of the room and shut the door.

It would be half the night before he would dare to check again. The only thing that had changed was the posture. Still at his father's bedside, Barry sat, back to the frame, knees pulled up to his chest. A hand clutched almost violently at his own hair, and Cisco could see the tears on his face, his shoulders shaking with it.

He still had his father's blood all over him, and indeed would not leave his father's side for another day, lashing out at anyone who dared to insist the contrary. Without warning, he emerged on the second day since his father's death, having silently tidied himself up and donned his finest outfit. He looked princely as he finally broke his spell of muteness and said they would bury his father that morning.

They did, and then they never spoke of King Henry again.

But every day, the Prince grew ever more estranged, never fully returning to the man Cisco had seen before that terrible night. He didn't laugh at Cisco's quips, nor did he play with his beloved _Houblon_. His books gathered dust in the library, and his horses became the servants' quarter entirely. He ate privately or not at all, regardless of who the Queen hosted. Even his smiles, rare and fleeting, were sharp, like broken pieces of glass. He was a different man from his twenty-third-year onward.

By the time the Witch came, Cisco could admit that Barry deserved a little comeuppance, having abandoned almost every scrap of the man he was in favor of the hard-hearted beast he was becoming.

Something had to reclaim his spirit, and if no one could, perhaps giving him exactly what he claimed to want -- perfect isolation -- would do it.

Perhaps now, Cisco reflects, staring at his dying master, it finally had.

* * *

Lying insensate on the foyer floor, The Beast reminds Cisco of King Henry.

But it is no boar that caused this, Cisco knows.  The resemblance between their injuries is grimly striking, but it must have been the dire wolves, for they drove off even the fiercest boars when they laid their claim to this cursed castle.

They certainly tore into The Beast: his left leg bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds, bite marks nearly an inch in diameter punched deep into the muscle just above the knee. The back of his right shoulder is torn to pieces, fur and flesh stripped with equal abandon, carrying up across to his neck, halting just beneath his chin. Deep claw marks abrade his right arm, accompanied by further tearing marks.

Cisco has watched many a hound tear into a fine hunk of leftover boar meat, latching onto their prize and stripping it to the bone, but he has never seen the same treatment applied to a living creature, and it repulses him.

He can't look at The Beast, cannot see his friend in such a state, afraid that every time he dares to touch his arm he will find The Beast as cold as the King that Cisco once knew. Fortunately, Caitlin is strong-hearted and unyielding, maintaining the vigil as Cisco makes himself useful elsewhere. "I will find linens," he decides, knowing they need something to stop the bleeding if they are to have any hope at all of saving the son where they could not save the father.

Caitlin doesn't respond, which is the closest thing he needs to agreement, and so he hops off, sick with dread.

From above, Cindy remarks, "The master does not look well."

"Oh, _ma chérie_ ," Cisco says lowly, turning to look at his beloved, "something terrible has happened, and I do not know if any of us can stop it."

Grimly, Cindy says, "We must act as though we can."

Nodding to himself, Cisco repeats, "We must." Then he asks, "You are faster than I am -- could you find someone to bring us linens? We must stop the bleeding."

Floating away, Cindy disappears down the hall. Decisively plodding back towards the foyer, Cisco grimaces when he sees Caitlin sitting beside The Beast, eerily similar to the scene he once found between the Prince and his father. _You mustn't think that way_ , he chides himself, hopping over. "My beloved shall bring us what we need."

"Perhaps whom, as well," Caitlin adds. "We can do our best, but--"

Crunching footsteps in the snow outside silence her, and Cisco scowls at the thought that the bad man has returned for a second round of unpleasantries. "I will take care of him," he assures in a dark voice, hopping forward and bracing himself. As the door opens, he warns in his most prodigiously frightening tone, "I am a candelabra, I _will_ light your cloak on fire."

"I hope not," _Belle_ replies, and Cisco's spirits soar.

" _Belle!_ " he sings, hopping forward as quickly as he can -- a little too quickly, tripping and landing in a heap at her feet. "What a wonderful surprise!" he exclaims, pushing himself to his feet.

"This is worse than I thought," _Belle_ admits, examining the gruesome red trail from door to The Beast's final resting place, scant feet away. Abandoning an unfamiliar cloak to the floor, she walks over and crouches beside The Beast. "How is he?" she asks Caitlin.

"I fear if he does not wake soon, he will not wake at all," Caitlin replies grimly.

Almost giddy with relief, Cisco insists, "But he certainly will, now that you are here!"

Bouncing along, a rolling tray spins towards them, halting with a batch of linens perched on top of it. Trailing alongside it, Cindy announces, "These might help."

"Oh, you are the most _wonderful_ feather duster in the world!" Cisco says, holding out his arms to receive her as she floats down. He twirls her once, singing, "The most dazzling, most charming creation the Earth has ever known!" Gathering his senses, he lets go of his beloved and turns to announce, "Now, _Belle_ , we must--"

Already kneeling beside The Beast with a linen unraveled underneath his arched left leg, _Belle_ begins wrapping it around the injury, asking lightly, "Have you no faith in me?"

"I _love_ her," Cisco laughs, lifting Cindy for another swing. "Oh, we are so lucky, to have a _Belle!_ "

Shaking her head, _Belle_ keeps working. "Happy to be of assistance," she says dryly, all-in-good-humor, and Cisco feels relief like an elixir seep over him, because surely for _Belle_ , The Beast will wake again!

He must!

* * *

The Beast does with a deep, terrible growl.

Refusing to acknowledge the instinctive desire to bolt at such a sound, Iris steels herself against the fear and keeps wrapping his leg. It twitches out of her grip and when she moves to reclaim her perch. Looking up at him in exasperation, she sees hazy blue-green eyes watching her. He looks barely conscious, but the pain on his face is very clear. " _What are you doing?_ "

"Saving your life," Iris replies, shuffling closer and attempting to resume. He jerks out of her reach and plants his hands on the floor, sitting up, chest heaving for breath.

" _Don't -- touch -- that,_ " he says, attempting to draw it closer to his chest.

"My friend, let her work," Cisco insists.

" _Leave me_ ," he snaps, trying to stand and getting his right knee but not his left underneath himself. Without leverage, he can only sit up, looming nearly four feet, even so. Iris straightens her shoulders and meets his gaze. His eyes won't focus on her, lip curled in pain. When she shifts closer, his growl becomes thunderous, lion-like. She finds her own heart speeding up as frustration makes its way to the surface.

"Do you wish to die?" she snaps.

" _I wish to be left_ alone," he says, eyes closed. Exasperated, she almost leaves, almost gives him the space he so clearly desires, because if he won't be civil she won't force it, but then inspiration strikes.

He doesn't see her reach for his paw, but the moment she makes contact, the growling ceases. She takes his paw in hand, and it dwarfs hers, big and warm and softer than she expects. Wrapping both hands around his, she holds on.

He grimaces when he shifts his leg, but his next exhale is deep, satisfied. He blinks hazy eyes at her without retracting his paw. Looking down at it, he murmurs, " _I ... I am sorry._ "

It's so unexpected she almost lets go. As it stands, her grip loosens, and he self-consciously retracts his paw. "It's all right," she says, keeping her tone soothing, "but I need you to stay still and let me help you."

In response, he nods drowsily and shifts until both legs are extended before him. Breathing shallowly, he remarks in a low voice, " _The wolves..."_

"Have left," she assures. Carefully -- still not entirely believing he'll allow it -- she picks up the linen and winds it around his leg, just above the knee. He doesn't move, holding patiently still. "They won't bother us here."

Shaking his head slowly, he says again, " _The wolves._ "

When no further remark seems forthcoming, she prompts, "What of them?"

" _That man ... killed our wolf,"_ he murmurs, and there's a strangely deep sorrow to his tone, a death-in-the-family solemnity that precedes his next words. " _The wolves ... needed us. He killed our wolf._ "

 _You almost killed a wolf_ , she does not remind. There is no point, and she worries it would only upset him further. She's astonished to see tears in his eyes, glancing back down at his leg to refocus herself. It helps to have something to do, and his hiss is almost welcome, a break from the sadness swelling in his chest.

Clearing his throat, he reclaims his composure, saying slowly, " _I can't believe_ Rouge _is dead._ "

"Surely," she says gently, "you have been witness to such a death. While loyal, dogs rarely outlive their masters."

" _It wasn't a dog_ ," The Beast says dully, reaching up to rub a paw against his face. " _It was ... family. To them. To us._ "

"They nearly killed you," Iris reminds.

" _Siblings fight. Families fight. Perhaps we were more ... violent than others._ " He lowers his hand and looks at her. " _They are as cursed as I am._ "

Wordlessly, she finishes the loop on the wrap and says, "This will hurt."

Nodding once, he closes his eyes as she tightens and knots the wrap. He doesn't say a word for a time, breathing shallowly. Then he suggests in a murmur, " _I shall ... rest here for ... a while._ " Leaning back, he starts to lie down, but Iris puts a halting hand on his shoulder and he sways, stills.

"A bed would be more comfortable," she tells him. He nods agreeably, but he leans back down, exhaling deeply. She admits, "I cannot carry you."

" _You won't have to._ "

Brushing a hand idly against his arm -- marveling that he doesn't try to snap her head off for it -- her fingers catch lightly in a spot where dried blood mats the fur. "Stay here," she says, standing.

Humming in response, he reaches up to drape his left arm over his head, exhaling.

Taking a pair of linen cloths with her, Iris leaves the candelabra, the clock, and the feather duster to watch over their master as she makes her way to the nearest wash room, soaking the linens and returning to The Beast's side. He's dozing, startling a little when she touches his arm again and letting out an inquisitive rumble.

If she focuses entirely on the fur directly in front of her, brushing the blood off with a cloth is like cleaning a very furry, chestnut-brown rug. A bath would be better, but she almost laughs aloud at the image of the eight-foot-tall Beast crammed into a tub. Then again, he doesn't carry an offensive beastly odor one might expect; he must stay clean _somehow_.

 _Rolling in snow_ , she determines, and smiles privately at the image.

She's rather satisfied with her progress when, maybe a quarter-hour later, an experimental glide of her fingers from elbow to wrist yields clean, smooth -- and damp, but fast-drying -- fur. He tenses when she applies the same treatment to the arm held over his eyes.

At first, she expects him to lay it back down at his side so she might mirror what she did for his right arm, but he keeps it there, and she doesn't push him, although she is necessarily reminded of the owner of the arm every time she glances down at his face, eyes hidden but nose and mouth clear, horns protruding just above his temples.

She moves on to his right foot, and he twitches it out of reach, again when she tries a second time, and by a third he moves his arms and sits up. She moves onto his shin, and he relaxes, watching her and asking slowly, " _What are you doing?_ "

"Do you want matted fur?"

He shrugs, grimacing as he does so. Eyes half-mast, he explains, " _There are worse things. Surely it is ... beneath ... a woman such as yourself._ "

"Such as myself?" she says.

He cannot blush, but the way he ducks his head, eyes darting away, is so familiar to her that she is certain he would be. " _I meant only that you are ... refined._ "

"Careful," she warns, setting the dirty rag aside and grabbing a clean one to work on his left shin, well below the bite. "I might think you were being complimentary."

He will not look at her, his gaze drawn over her shoulder as he says quietly, " _I was_."

Now it's her turn to blush, and she has nowhere to hide. Ducking her own head, she gingerly brushes just beneath the wrap, his hiss of complaint making her stop. "Sorry."

He shrugs, and she reaches for his left foot -- as uninjured as his right appears to be -- and he twitches it from her grasp. She warns, "You'll have to cut off the fur here, if it dries."

" _So be it_."

"You had no problem with me doing your arm," she points out, brushing it once pointedly, and he keeps a stiff-jawed silence.

It lasts a moment too long, for realization makes her grin a little. "You're ticklish."

He growls, a sound that rolls like a lion's, but she cannot be frightened so easily as she brushes the cloth against the sole of his foot once. He twitches it away, tail swishing, and Iris smiles but doesn't push the point, compromising by draping the damp linen over it and saying, "You should soak it. I wasn't joking about the matted fur."

He reaches up to brush his eyes. " _Why did I ever let you into my castle?_ " he asks, but he doesn't sound upset. Shifting, he winces and admits slowly, " _Your idea ... may have been superior._ "

"Which one?" she asks, but it becomes clearer which one as he hauls himself to his feet. His left leg trembles as he holds it above the ground, eyes all but shut as he sways. "Here, let me--" Standing, she gets his left arm around her shoulders. He relaxes a little, even though she feels only the slightest increase in pressure against her arm. He's not putting weight against her, but she refuses to leave his side. "Take it slowly," she advises, and he takes a single heavy step forward, wincing and leaning a little more against her until he rights himself.

"You are doing wonderfully, my prince!" Cisco cajoles, and Iris almost loses her own footing in surprise as the candelabra hops alongside them. "Onward!"

Growling at a less threatening timbre -- in almost fond exasperation, Iris thinks, wondering when she started recognizing the difference between pitches -- he staggers along. Iris loses track of Cisco and Caitlin and Cindy, too, focusing entirely on The Beast at her side. _Houblon_ tramples along after them, and twice he nearly takes The Beast's legs out from underneath him, but Iris resorts to carrying the footstool under one arm and The Beast with the other.

" _A strong woman_ ," The Beast observes, and he sounds humored. She smiles a little and keeps her arm around him, relief sinking into them both as they hobble into a guest room. " _Never have I been happier to see a bed_ ," he says, claiming a seat and lying back down. " _Gods be good. I love you for this_."

She blinks once, twice, and then he spares her the burden of a response as he exhales deeply and sprawls. His right leg hangs off the bed, and she sees his right arm curled somewhat awkwardly on his chest to prevent it from doing the same, puncture marks still present. Inspired, she wanders over to a closet -- ignoring Cisco's "What are you doing, Mademoiselle?" -- and smiles when she finds a stack of pillows.

She offers him one and he puts it on his chest, resting his arm on top of it, some of the tension evaporating from his shoulders. Encouraging him to lift his left leg, she gets one underneath it as well, and then she tosses the third on his face.

Smiling, he reaches up and removes it. " _I am not possibly this interesting_ ," he remarks.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she asks, "What do you mean?"

" _I saw your father. He came to no harm. As far as I could see,"_ he allows, frowning before Iris nods. Continuing, he chooses his words carefully. " _Yet you came back. Surely this was not your sole option?_ "

"Not even my first choice," she admits, because there's something about him that inspires honesty, however bruising. He takes no offense, and she qualifies, "You saved my life."

He half-smiles. " _If I conveyed an impression of indebtedness..._ "

"Not indebted," Iris corrects. Then, because she can't help it, she teases, "Although I _was_ promised an escort to the edge of the woods, and he seems to have abandoned me."

" _He is ... terribly sorry, I am sure._ "

"So sure?"

" _So sure_."

Almost without meaning to, she reaches out and rests a hand on his arm. Once it's there, she doesn't remove it, and he just looks at her with soft eyes, so human. " _You are ... the most beautiful woman I have ever seen_ ," he admits.

She's glad the dim lighting of the room hides her blush this time. Recalling Eddie's remark, she assures, "Fear not. I am still the least marriageable creature there is."

He laughs, short but sincere. " _You must own no mirrors. We do not look upon the same creature. And if ever there was a less marriageable creature than a Beast, I have yet to find it_."

"You're a prince," she reminds. Amazed that he lets her, and that he really is a _prince,_ she can't help but reach up and straighten his cloak at the shoulders. "You must have a higher opinion of yourself," she chides.

" _Some might say I have too high of an opinion of myself,_ " he says, eyelids sliding shut.

The door clicks lightly shut, and Iris turns to see that they're alone. Looking back down at The Beast, she removes her hands, resting them on her own lap instead. She doesn't give up her seat, watching him for a long moment. "What kind of prince are you?"

" _A terrible one._ "

"I don't believe that," she says, resting a hand on the back of his paw. "You like gardens. What else do you like?"

" _Does it matter?_ "

She taps a finger against his paw. " _Beast_."

"Belle."

With a little smile, she says, "You do know what that means, do you not?"

" _How could I not? It means 'Beautiful.'_ " Then, forcing his eyes open, he looks at her and insists, " _I stand by it._ "

"You're a handsome beast," she tells him, and he turns his head to one side. Unintentionally, the gesture exposes some of the torn skin between neck and shoulder. She winces sympathetically. "I never thanked you," she says.

He sighs, eyes already closed. " _For what?_ "

"Saving my life. Again. You're very good at that."

He turns his hand over, squeezing it. " _You're welcome,_ Belle."

She's silent for a long moment, her hand captured in his paw, aware that he could do terrible damage before she had a prayer of escaping. Yet her heart beats slowly, relaxed, because she knows he would not hurt her. "Will it affect the curse?" she asks.

" _Will what affect the curse?_ "

"My name."

With an effort, he tilts his head back to look at her, blinking. Releasing her hand, he says slowly, " _To the best of my knowledge ... no. It will not._ "

"And if I know yours?"

He smiles. " _It's far worse than you can imagine_."

She smiles back. "Ralph?"

He takes her hand again and murmurs, " _My name is Bartholomew Henry Allen. If you must, please call me Barry._ "

"I don't know," she says, stroking the back of his paw and following the grain of his fur, heart skipping a beat at the mere sound of his actual _name_. "I like Bartholomew."

He looks at her for a long moment, unblinking, and then he permits, " _Anything but Bart._ "

She can't help but tease him. "I like Bart."

He closes his eyes. " _Please._ "

Taking pity, she leans down, and he is so big that even two feet of distance feels very close. Trying to calm her racing heart, she says, "Very well. _Barry_."

He exhales slowly. " _I rescind my previous arrangement,_ " he murmurs, sounding half-asleep.

"What arrangement is that?" she asks, reaching up idly to stroke his cheek, just once, just to see if it's as soft as it looks. (It is.)

" _I didn't want to give you my name._ "

"Why not?"

He tilts his head just so, pressing into her palm the slightest bit. " _Quid pro quo_ ," he reminds.

She strokes his cheek again and feels him purr. "Iris Ann West," she says at last.

" _Iris_ ," he repeats. Somehow even in the guttural Beast's tone, it's beautiful. Because it is _sincere_. " _Iris Ann West._ "

"Bartholomew Henry Allen," she muses, then, amending, " _Prince_ Bartholomew Henry Allen."

A smile twitches his lips, but she can sense him fading, not responding as she strokes his cheek idly. When at last he is asleep, she moves her hand, staying at his side for a moment longer.

Then she turns to the empty fireplace, inspired, and gets to work.

* * *

"They are in _love_ ," Cisco croons, hopping into the foyer. He nearly loses his happy romantic air when he sees all the blood still on the floor, even though a troop of mops and soap buckets stand at attention, awaiting command.

"If they were, we wouldn't be accessories," Caitlin reminds, overseeing the cleanup.

"Come, have you not seen them? They're smitten! Why, he will propose tomorrow at this rate!"

"That seems unrealistic," Caitlin says. Turning, she commands loudly, " _Houblon,_ no."

The footstool, with two of its legs up on the soap bucket, whines and drops back to all fours. Redirecting his attention to the mops, it barks and chases after one. Fleeing for its life, the mop beats a hasty retreat, scattering bubbles across the entire floor. Skating across them, _Houblon_ barks delightedly, refusing to give up the chase.

"I _love_ that dog," Cisco says, laughing when it bowls him over on the third lap. "What a delight!"

Looking up at Cindy, Caitlin remarks, "Do you share his optimism?"

"On the contrary -- I am the realist," Cindy admits, staying well out of reach of the increasing pandemonium as four mops zip across the floor, crashing into each other and desperately attempting to avoid the footstool at their heels. "He is the dreamer. But I am encouraged. She came back."

"I am surprised," Caitlin admits. "She could have left."

"She cares for the master," Cindy says with a shrug. "She wouldn't be here if she didn't."

Caitlin hops out of the way of a fleeing mop, staring at the unfolding fiasco and shaking her head. "Will she ever be able to handle _us_?" she asks.

Cindy smiles, floating down and saying, "Are we not the best part?"

* * *

Kneeling before a crackling fire, Iris smiles at the increasingly noisy shouts, bangs, and barks from the foyer. Cisco's laughter carries, as do Caitlin's commands for order. Above it all, she hears the deep, steady breathing of The Beast -- of Barry Allen, _Prince_ Barry, sleeping on the bed.

Amazed that the commotion doesn't wake him, she gets up and takes a seat in the sole chair in the room, a grand, well-articulated piece, clearly at home in a castle.

Propping her elbow on the arm and her chin in hand, she watches The Beast and listens to the furniture argue in the hall, smiling to herself.

Because despite everything, she feels at _home_.

* * *

Hunger motivates most things Barry does. When his stomach rumbles, he rouses himself enough to blink at a blurry ceiling he does not recognize. Tensing, he sits up, grimacing in pain as every claw and bite mark stings and tugs and burns, deep and painful. Turning to his right, he sees _\--_ _Iris, Iris, her name is Iris --_ sleeping in a chair.

Amused, he lies back down.

Some things are worth waiting for, he thinks, closing his eyes, resolving to let her rest.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, but when he awakes, there is a very happy footstool standing on his chest wagging, with a note pinned to its front. " _All yours_. --C."

He doesn't need to ask which one, smiling a little. It's all three.

" _Houblon,_ " he murmurs. The dog-turned-footstool continues to wag happily, silent for a change. Then it hops onto the pillow next to him. Reaching up, he rests a hand on its back.

Closing his own eyes, he dozes.

* * *

Iris awakes with a crick in her neck.

Wincing, she sits up, delirious with hunger and fatigue. Then she hears a deep sigh and her eyes catch The Beast on the bed. At first, she notices nothing different, and then a tiny whuff of contentment draws her attention to the footstool cuddled in the crook of his left arm.

Smiling, she blinks when the door squeaks open. A very ragged but beaming Cisco and equally ragged and frowning Caitlin appear in the threshold. Cisco waves brightly at her, then points energetically at Caitlin, who scowls at him. Cocking her head, Iris tries to read the message, and then Cisco rubs his belly before pointing at the clock again.

Understanding, Iris stands and pads nearly silently out of the room, shutting the door very carefully behind her.

"What a big fuzz!" Cisco chortles, hopping down the hall. "Shall we eat? You must be starving!"

Iris' stomach growls in confirmation. "I wouldn't say no to a twelve-course meal," she replies, and he laughs.

"Oh, _ma chère_ , I will prepare a _hundred_ -course meal for you!"

"Isn't that a little unrealistic?" Caitlin reminds, eyebrows up, sidling along.

Cisco laughs, waving a hand dismissively. "Whatever you do not eat, the master shall!"

"You mean Barry?"

Cisco screeches to an audible halt. "How could you not _lead_ with that?" he demands, hastily dousing his candles before hugging her leg. "Congratulations!"

"I'm sorry," Caitlin says, "he can't be helped."

"I understand," Iris assures, smiling as Cisco steps back and relights his candles, all at once.

"A _twelve-hundred_ course meal!" he determines, hopping energetically along, shouting, "Forks! Spoons! Be prepared! _Nous avons quelque chose de spécial ce soir!_ "

Caitlin says, "He's very excitable."

Iris smiles. "It's sweet. You both have been very kind to me."

"You are our guest," Caitlin says. "It is the least we can do."

"That _reminds_ me!" Cisco calls, hopping nearly out of sight. "I have _five new verses_ for our dining song!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:
> 
>  _Ma chérie_ = My darling.  
>  _Ma chère_ = My dear.  
>  _Nous avons quelque chose de spécial ce soir_ = We have something special tonight!


	10. Chapter 10

"Should you even be on your feet?"

Barry huffs, forepaw on the wall for balance. "I'm a Beast, not a bag of flour."

Shoulder against the doorframe, Iris watches him. To no one will he admit that he is already dangerously in love with her name. There's no fairness to it: four letters should not change his perspective entirely. But they do. When he looks at her, he cannot see her as a nameless woman anymore.

Her name is _Iris_.

 _Have some dignity_ , he chides himself, refusing to give voice to his nonsensical feelings. "Besides," he redirects, pushing himself off the wall and resting his weight on his left leg gingerly, "I promised to escort you to the edge of the woods."

"I didn't mean at this very moment," she replies.

He refuses to read into that, telling the slightest flutter of his heart to calm itself. _It means nothing_. "Won't your father worry?"

"My father worries when I am safe at home with him," Iris says. "He worries no matter where I am. It's not him I am concerned about."

He cannot misread that. "I see." Stepping across the room, he keeps his stride deliberate and firm. Pain lances down his left leg, but he keeps his jaw shut, and almost believes his own words when he says, "I'm fine."

"Hardly."

Standing in front of her, he holds his shoulders to full height. "I'm fine," he insists.

She looks him up and down, sizing him up. "If you take me to the edge of the woods," she says slowly, "then you will have fulfilled your bargain. But from there, on foot, it would still take me at least a day to walk home, presuming I do not come across any ordinary wolves on the way."

He hates that his hopefulness deflates a little. _She is being practical. That's all._ "I see," he repeats. "Then we have a bit of a dilemma, as I have no horses..." he trails off, frowning thoughtfully. "There was a white mare. With your father. She bolted during our ... encounter. I didn't see her with the others before I left."

"You didn't hurt her, did you?"

Ignoring the little pinprick of hurt that she would think he could, he shakes his head. "I cannot guarantee she is still unharmed," he warns, "as she has been out in the woods for some time, but--"

He takes a step forward and she steps back, letting him into the hall. "It's a start," he permits. He feels stronger with each stride, cajoling his body into compliance. _I do not care if it hurts,_ he tells his uncooperative limbs, heavy and abraded. _Move_. "The wolves would have gone after the warhorse first. They may not have found her yet. There's a chance--"

Halfway to the main doors, he collapses to a knee. Iris rushes forward, but it isn't the pain in his leg which stops him: it's a deep, familiar, world-ending ache, a knife plunged straight through his heart.

The first time it happened, he thought he was dying. Now, aware that he is not alone, he closes his eyes and struggles to hide the agony. Hand on his shoulder, Iris asks worriedly, "Barry? What's wrong?" Bowing forward, he plants a hand on the floor, straining to not make a sound.

_Another petal._

Five left.

Exhaling hard, he can't help the cold shiver of panic that courses down his spine.

_We have less than a week, at this pace._

A week is starting to look painfully optimistic, and when the pain finally succumbs, he falls onto his side hard.

Five more.

Dazed, he can't say he isn't relieved that there are only five left. Only five more times will he have to put up with this agony.

Grimacing, he recognizes that by the same logic, he will have to deal with it five more times, and exhales hard, smothering his frustration and fear.

* * *

They started with twenty-eight petals.

On his very first night as a Beast, Barry made a costly mistake. In a moment of frustrated fury, he touched the rose and a petal fell. The pain was so intense he blacked out, coming to cold and terrified on the marble floor.

Consigning the rose to its resting place under a bell jar in the west wing, he ordered the space abandoned, and under ferocious penalty commanded everyone to stay away from it. No one was to touch the rose. No one was even to go near it.

No one disobeyed his order for six months, but he still felt it every time a petal fell. On average, they fell once a fortnight with no predictable schedule. He started to feel ragged by the fourth month, the waiting game coupled with the awareness that the rose could shed its petal at any time making him edgy. No one wanted to walk around with a knife over their back, ready to plunge in at an unsuspecting moment.

Barry hated the rose, and he spent many nights going back and forth between destroying the rose himself.

That was Cisco and Caitlin's greatest fear: that in one of his bursts of rage, he would end it all.

Perhaps even the Witch thought he would fold. Half a year of silence had dissolved, and now the petals were falling with alarming frequency. The fact that they did so because of Iris' proximity to his life hadn't escaped him.

Holding onto consciousness with a tremendous effort of will, Barry pushes himself upright and thinks, _Five more chances_.

"You need to _rest_ ," Iris says sternly. She cannot know, and he will not tell her, the real reason for his suffering, but he shakes his head, struggling to his feet. _Now_ his leg hurts, rather abominably, an intense, teeth-grinding ache that supplements the pain in his chest perfectly.

"Your mare is in danger," he reproves, voice low and hurting. "If we delay, she may die."

"If we proceed, you certainly will."

He gets both legs underneath himself and stands. She puts an arm around his back, and it only reaches halfway. She is far too light for him to place his weight upon her, but he delicately leans against her, just enough to find his balance while placing all his weight on his right foot. "It will pass," he says.

"Master," Cisco chimes in, hopping into the foyer, "perhaps we might ... take a bit more time to think about this?"

"I'm _fine_ ," Barry snaps.

"You can barely stand," Iris reminds sharply. "If Volo has survived this long, she'll be fine another moment."

At that moment, something crunches through the ice, a rhythmic, familiar step. Cisco hops towards the door as Barry attempts to follow, leaning a little more against Iris when he cannot bring himself to take even a single step. Struggling with the door, Cisco tugs it open slowly, puffing hard from exertion as he drops back.

Carefully disentangling herself, Iris steps out from underneath Barry's arm -- he tries not to miss her, and fails -- and marches across the floor. What Cisco struggled to achieve, she effortlessly accomplishes, drawing the door all the way open.

A white horse bobs its head and whickers once, shaking but whole.

"Gods be good," Iris says, rushing forward and hugging the horse tightly around the neck. " _Volo._ "

Barry exhales slowly, taking a step towards the door. Volo snorts when she sees him, reeling back a step, and Iris has the foresight to take her reins to keep her from bolting. "Easy," she assures. "He won't hurt you."

Grimacing apologetically, Barry dares to take another step forward. "Given appearances," he admits, "I can see how she would see it that way."

Volo jerks back, visibly upset, and Barry stops again. Gliding back a step, he permits, "Perhaps Cisco could show you to the stables."

"But of _course_ ," Cisco says, hopping forward. "It would be the highest honor!"

Iris looks back at him and orders, "Don't move."

With a disgruntled noise, Barry says, "I'm still a prince."

"I know. And I still possess a greater sense of self-preservation. Don't move."

He takes a seat on the stairs and looks at her expectantly. "Better?"

She smiles, and he must look away. "Better," she says, leading the horse away, Cisco's chatter filling the cold air behind them.

Rubbing a paw over his face, Barry asks, "What am I to do with this woman?"

Caitlin sidles up to his side, climbing onto the step and sitting next to him. "You could try being nice."

"I am _nice_ ," he grunts.

"Nicer," she amends. "You nearly tore her head off for helping you."

Shame makes him bury his paw in his fur, hiding his eyes. "I can't do this."

"Apologize -- sincerely -- and she'll forgive you."

Dropping his hand, he points out with a frown, "I apologized."

"You said 'I'm sorry.' Now show her you meant it."

"How?"

Caitlin lifts her arms in a shrug. It looks a little stiff, and his stomach hurts with how little he wishes to condemn her and Cisco and the rest of the castle to oblivion once the last petal falls. "You are as good as you act," she says. "If you want to show her you regret being unkind, show her kindness."

He shifts his legs, frowning thoughtfully. "I haven't entertained anyone in a long time," he admits.

"You certainly seemed to be moving in the right direction in the gardens," Caitlin points out, and he can't help a slight smile. "Just ... be yourself. Your _nice_ self."

"My nice self," he muses, resting an elbow on his knee, chin in paw. "I may have an idea."

* * *

It is surprisingly humanizing to think of The Beast as Barry.

When she watches him stride down the hall, she can't escape the impression that he is wearing The Beast's façade. He seems strikingly real, an actual person beneath the snarls and sharp edges, where before she saw only a nameless monster. She doesn't know how she feels about it, thinking of him as _someone_ instead of _something_.

Leaving him seated on the staircase, she turns and leads Volo after Cisco. The candelabra hops energetically across the snowy lawn, only outpaced by the footstool tearing ahead. "Come, come! Before the cold sinks in!"

Whickering in alarm at the sight of animate furniture, Volo nevertheless follows Iris' persuasive tugs towards the stables, relaxing once they stall her. With the doors shut behind them, even unattended the stables are less hostile than the outdoors. Barking, _Houblon_ plunges ahead, bouncing in and out of stalls gleefully. "He never loses his spirit," Cisco muses fondly, instructing Iris towards brushes and a blanket fit for a horse. "May we emulate him in life, and after!"

Brushing Volo's neck, Iris frowns. "What do you mean?"

Backpedaling, Cisco chuckles. "Why, nothing, of course!" He nearly sets a stack of hay on fire as he hops away. "Nothing at all! We are effectively immortal! I have not aged a day! Look at how sprightly I am!"

"Cisco," Iris says.

"Nothing can harm a candelabra!" he assures.

Letting the steady motion of the brush soothe her, Iris doesn't say anything for a moment. Then she asks, "What happens if the rose dies?"

"What rose? We have no roses!" Cisco laughs nervously.

"The one in the west wing," Iris reminds. She sees him wince and trip over a brush on the floor. "If it dies ... what happens?"

Righting himself, Cisco rubs his forehead. Iris notices his top candle extinguished; he doesn't bother to relight it. "I do not wish to trouble you," he says seriously.

Iris mulls that over, brushing Volo down slowly. When she is satisfied, she sets the brush down and drapes the blanket over Volo's back. The mare steadies, sitting on the hay scattered across the floor. Iris mimics her, taking a seat on an overturned barrel. Cisco hops over, frowning pensively.

"I am not sure how much I can tell you," he admits.

"If you say too much, what happens?"

"I have no idea. But I do not wish to find out."

She nods once, conceding. Fair point. "Is your life at stake?"

His candles dim. Making a halfhearted sound of agreement, he insists, "Do not worry about me! I am quite happy. As happy as any candelabra ever was!" His candles do not brighten, and she feels something tight and achingly sad swell in her chest.

"How much time do you have?" she asks.

He cocks his head at her, silent for a long moment. "My dearest _Belle_ ," he says fondly, before shaking his head and amending, " _Ma chère_ Iris, I haven't the slightest idea."

"I'm truly sorry," Iris says.

With a slight wave of his arms in lieu of a shrug, he asks, "Do any of us know how much time we have?"

Iris can't help but admire the resilience of his optimism. "Touché," she says. "I hope you have many years before you, Cisco."

"And I hope the same for you, Iris," he replies with a little bow. "You are an extra-ordinary woman."

"Have you ever met an ordinary woman?" she asks, amused.

He smiles. "Certainly. Do you see any other women forsaking a chance to return home to remain at the side of a terrible Beast?"

"He's far from terrible," Iris says, meaning it. It surprises her just how much. Standing, she advises, "Although perhaps we should return to make sure he does not disprove me."

With a laugh, Cisco agrees, "Let's!"

* * *

"I thought I told you not to move," Iris chides the moment she steps inside the foyer. It's silly how warm Barry feels at just _seeing_ her again. He bites his tongue against a comment. _Be kind, not foolish._

Standing in the center of the room, he bows low. Straightening, he explains in a dignified voice, "I know you've explored most of the castle on your own, but I wanted to show you something."

Arching her eyebrows thoughtfully, Iris walks towards him. His heartbeat kicks up, and he hopes she can't hear it. _No human could_ , he assures himself, but he feels like she can tell, even so, as she looks up at him. "Oh?" Barry hears Cisco and Caitlin making a quick _exeunt_ , leaving them alone. "Are you up to it?"

He nods once. "Are you?" he challenges.

She tucks an arm around his back -- ostensibly for support, of course -- and asks, "Have I ever not been?"

His heart is definitely beating too loudly, but he keeps his voice as steady as he can as he says, "This way."

* * *

Iris has seen many beautiful things -- sunsets and summer storms, fresh-baked bread and her father's smile -- but she has no comparable experience to this.

Standing in the center of the library, she finds herself for a moment utterly speechless.

"These are all yours?" she asks. She does a slow turn in the center of the floor, aching to commit it all to memory.

Barry nods once. " _My family has spent lifetimes acquiring them. There are over ten thousand._ "

She believes it. "Barry. This is _beautiful_."

He looks a little shy, lingering in the doorway and leaning a shoulder against the frame, smiling at the floor. " _Take whichever you like_."

"Have you read them all?" she asks, absentmindedly pulling a book from its shelf, hugging it to her chest.

He laughs. " _Some are written in Greek._ "

Drifting back over to him, book cradled to her chest, she insists, "Have you read any of them?"

He meets her gaze and nods once. " _Quite a few._ "

She smiles and drifts away from him again, taking in the room. It must be three or four thousand square feet, its tall ceilings at least fifty feet high. Polished wood, gorgeous chairs, and a massive hearth add to the fantastic beauty of the place. It's breathtaking.

"I've never met anyone who likes to read," she admits. "Most people are literate, but in my town ... well, people have 'better things to do.'" She waves a hand dismissively, setting her book down and gliding across the floor. "Oh, Beast, I would spend every moment of every day here, if I were you."

" _I have spent some time here_ ," he professes. " _Though not as much as it deserves._ " His claws click as he rocks lightly on his feet. " _Feel free to use it whenever you like._ "

Turning to him, standing across the floor, she smiles. "I may never leave," she warns.

He sighs in mock regret. " _I cannot revoke a promise to a Lady,"_ he mourns, smiling a little.

She curtseys. "Lady Iris West, of the most provincial town in France."

" _Prince Barry Allen, of the most unusual castle in all the land._ "

She laughs. He steps into the room, a little gingerly, and she waits for him. Catching the hint, he crosses the floor to her, eventually pausing just out of arm's reach. In his royal blues, he does indeed look quite princely, bandaged leg and all. "Why have you let me stay?" she asks. "Surely I have been nothing but trouble for you." Glancing at his leg pointedly, she meets his eyes and waits.

He steps closer, looks down at her, and then he side-steps with a slight smile. He mimes taking a key and locking his mouth, tossing his imaginary key over one shoulder and striding off, back to her.

 _Princes_ , she thinks, amused and intrigued in equal parts. She follows him, silently touring the place as he leads the way. He doesn't say a word, just pausing every so often and looking up, examining the shelves like he is seeing them for the first time. Eventually, he halts just in front of the hearth, and claims a book from the mantle, clearly well-loved. Holding it in his paws, she hears his claws click against it lightly, contemplatively.

Then he turns to her and says, " _If you like to read ... this is a wonderful book._ " Holding it out to her, he meets her gaze, something careful and questioning there. He's waiting for her to judge him, she realizes.

Reaching out, she rests her hands on top of his paws. Waiting just a moment, just to see if he'll retract his offer, she slides her hands to the book itself. He lets go, and she hugs it to her chest.

"What's it about?" she asks.

He smiles. " _You'll see._ "

Drifting away, paws locked behind his back, he says simply, " _Enjoy._ " The doors shut behind him, leaving her and the books.

Iris looks around, scarcely daring to believe this is _real_. Taking a deep breath, savoring just the _smell_ of books and perfect peace, she looks down at the book in her hands.

Opening it, she smiles.

_Two households, both alike in dignity_

_In fair Verona, where we lay our scene_

_From ancient grudge break to new mutiny_

_Where civil blood makes civil hands_ _unclean_.

Drifting over to a chair, she curls up in it and makes herself at home in another world.

* * *

"Why leave?"

Barry smiles and he knows he must look silly, but he doesn't care. Walking down the corridor, he redirects, "How's her horse?"

Cisco refuses to budge, hopping alongside him. "It was going splendidly! No fighting whatsoever!"

"I'll take it the horse is well."

" _Barry_. You cannot leave me hanging like this!"

Kneeling with a profound effort, Barry looks at Cisco and Caitlin, silent till now. "I wish to be pleasant, not overwhelming. It felt ... right."

Cisco groans in mock despair. "Barry, you must woo her! Romance her! _Talk_ to her!"

But Caitlin says, "I approve."

Barry smiles and straightens, grimacing a little as he does so. "Have we any wine? I have a terrible headache."

"Hangovers cure all ails," Caitlin says dryly.

"Wine is the most romantic of elixirs!" Cisco says, immediately taken with the idea. "Brilliant idea, _mon ami flou!_ "

* * *

It's nearly impossible to get The Beast drunk, but a fairly sizeable quantity of wine does take the sharp edges off. At some point, Iris drifts into the kitchens and sits on one of the preparing tables, sliding a book across the table to him. "Finished?" he asks, surprised and happy to see her.

"No," she admits. " _Q_ _uid pro quo_."

Smiling, she accepts the bottle of wine that he passes towards her in return, picking up a glass beside her and filling it. "To excellent books," she toasts.

"To excellent wine," he concurs, taking a bottle and clicking it against hers.

* * *

"Caitlin," Cisco hisses. " _Caitlin_."

"Mm--what?"

"Come with me."

Caitlin obliges, asking in a tired murmur, "Couldn't this wait until morning? It's late."

Shaking his head, Cisco pushes the library door open.

The Beast isn't hard to find, sitting with his back to a book shelf on the opposite side of the grand room, dozens of books scattered around him. He has a sleepy smile on, eyes closed. Caitlin does not immediately see what is so strange about the scene -- certainly, it is nice to see Barry in something of a good mood -- but then she looks again and sees Iris on Barry's left side. They're shoulder-to-shoulder, and Caitlin can tell Iris is saying something, but her voice does not carry.

Smiling herself, Caitlin takes Cisco's arm, ignoring his fervent protests, and drags him silently out of the room.

The door clicks behind them, but neither Belle nor The Beast take notice.

* * *

" _It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife._ "

Barry chuckles underneath her. " _This is your choice?_ "

Iris nods, resting back against him more comfortably. He's heavy and warm; her own eyelids flutter. Still, she clears her throat and elbows him in the side. "Do not interrupt."

" _Sorry_ ," he murmurs. " _Carry on_."

" _However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters._ "

He's asleep before the end of the sentence. She picks up a paw and it twitches, curling around her hand. One-handed, she balances the book and continues to read, head against his side.

* * *

It's midmorning before Barry awakes, slumped against a bookshelf. Eyes closed, he yawns, a low, rumbling sound pulled from deep in his chest, and Iris stirs against him. Blinking in surprise, he tilts his head down and sees her curled up against his side, hugging one of his paws. Hesitating, he tugs on it just so, and she releases it at once.

He regrets the gesture as soon as he makes it, but she's already sitting up, stretching her own arms behind her back. "Good morning," she says, soft and almost unsure.

"Good morning," he replies, looking down at the book resting on its back. "Couldn't put it down?"

She leans back against his side with a solid thump. "How do you live this way? So many stories at your fingertips?"

Looking down at his short gray claws, he tucks them inward, resting both hands on his chest and shrugging. "You can become accustomed to anything," he replies.

"To be a prince," she muses, pushing herself to her feet at last.

He misses her at his side immediately, but he doesn't push it, mirroring her actions instead. He winces as his left leg burns, his body aching reproachfully. Putting his shoulders back, he maintains a steady stance. "Would you ... like to dine with me?" he asks.

She smiles. "Where?"

He smiles back. "Follow me."

* * *

Sitting out on the ballroom floor, surrounded by a loyal army of dishes and other pieces of cutlery, Barry and Iris sit on the floor across from each other, Barry's legs in front of him, Iris' underneath her. They don't speak much, but _Houblon_ has a seat between them, occasionally rising to bump Iris' or Barry's knee, startling a little grunt from the latter and a concerned question from the former. Patting _Houblon_ reassuringly, Barry says, "He's fine. Just enthusiastic."

Smiling, Iris takes the footstool in her arms when it comes wagging over to her. "Is that so?"

Observing from one of the light fixtures, Cindy smiles before drifting silently out of the room.

"They're being quiet," Cisco says anxiously the moment she appears in the corridor. "Is she alive?"

"My dear future husband," Cindy says, drifting down to him and resting her arms on his. His eyebrows arch in surprise; he grins broadly as he takes her in his arms. "Have you no faith?"

"I have all the faith in the world in you," he assures, spinning her once. "My perfect feather, my gorgeous love. I trust you, where I cannot trust them."

Laughing lightly, Cindy says, "They're fine. He's finally gotten his footing."

"I am _incandescent_ ," Cisco proclaims, and so he is, practically glowing, all three candles lit. "I knew he could do it."

"We are still furniture," Caitlin reminds soberly.

"Only a matter of time, I am sure," Cisco says. "Ah, to be young and in love!" he swoons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:  
>  _Ma chère_ = My dear.  
>  _Mon ami flou_ = My fuzzy friend!


	11. Chapter 11

" _You would have loved my father. He hosted beautiful balls._ "

"What about me indicates that I would enjoy balls?" Iris teases, brushing down Volo. Barry sits on the castle steps, keeping his distance and allowing the horse to get used to the idea of him. So far, aside from a little foot-stomping and snorting, Volo hasn't taken terribly unkindly to him. Iris turns to look at him -- he has his chin propped in his paw, watching her and quickly feigning interest in the ground directly in front of him -- and smiles.

" _You seem ... refined,_ " he elaborates. A paw drifts to the back of his neck anxiously. She finds it inexplicably endearing. " _Do you ... not find food and drink agreeable?_ "

"Well, certainly," she allows, patting Volo's neck once before turning her loose in the yard. They've kept the outer gates shut, creating a corral. Iris drifts towards him, taking her time. "But I could have both of those things at any meal."

" _What of music?_ "

"Have you met Cisco?"

He laughs. " _True. But beautiful people,_ " he explains in a broad, sweeping narrative, " _from beautiful places, with beautiful stories._ " He drops his paw and smiles that now familiar half-smile at the snow. She can see him drifting back to that place, looking up at her and drawing himself to his feet. " _I used to hate it,_ " he admits, " _the whole affair. It felt ... stuffy and insincere. But oh, it was_ beautiful _, Iris. What I wouldn't give for another ball._ " Sweeping towards her, he bows and greets, " _It is an honor to have you here, Lady Iris._ "

She smiles, curtseying in her grey dress. "Pleasure is all mine, Prince Barry."

" _Everything was_ _perfect_ ," he muses. " _Before you even walked in, you could smell the roast._ " Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply. " _Whatever you felt of my father, you could never contempt his cooks_." Exhaling, he opens his eyes and explains, " _Just standing here, you could hear laughter from the halls. I always wondered what they were saying –- I never made a point of talking to them, if I could avoid it--"_

"You? Uncommunicative?" she teases. "I can scarcely imagine it." He growls in mock remonstrance and Volo whickers, making him shy inward, shoulders slouching self-consciously. "She's quite all right," Iris assures, and he straightens.

Duly humbled, he keeps his voice low and polite. " _We would pin_ Houblon _up in the kitchens, but he still managed to break free nearly every time and tackle some Lord or another._ "

"I would pay to see that," Iris says, smiling. "Quite handsomely."

" _He is a more impressive beast in life than in his present form,_ " Barry admits. " _A splendid white terrier, large enough to carry a child-king. Not that I was ever small enough to take advantage._ "

"How did you acquire him?"

Barry takes a step out onto the lawn, glancing over at Volo apprehensively. When the mare does not startle, he relaxes, walking at a leisurely pace around the sprawling garden. Iris accompanies him. " _I was never a very good listener,_ " he begins, " _and one day I ventured out into town with a friend._ "

"Have I met this friend?"

Barry smiles, paws crunching lightly on the snow. " _You've met his brother. We were supposed to be back by sundown, for yet another meeting with a Lord, when ... I heard this strange sound. Dante singled out its location, and we found, trembling at the bottom of a well, a small white dog. It was freezing -- this being late October -- but I couldn't leave it. So I stripped off my coat, told Dante to tell my father that I had died doing what I loved, and slid into the well._ "

Iris leans against his arm, and he lets her have it. "You climbed down into a well?"

" _I fell, gracefully, is more appropriate._ " He smiles at the memory, adding, " _It is quite miraculous I did not snap my neck. I expected the dog to be as sedate at the water as he had seemed from the surface, but the moment I landed beside him, he jumped on top of me._ "

"'Hops,'" Iris supplies.

Barry nods, pausing at a small bridge over a frosted-over pond. " _Hops,_ " he agrees. Leaning his elbows against the arch, he looks down at the frozen water and muses, " _I had no idea how I was going to climb back up forty feet with this wriggling wet carpet in my arms, but Dante found a rope and bucket and tossed them down to us._

" _I dumped the pup in the bucket. He was just small enough to fit, thank God. I would not have put it past_ Houblon _to try to return to his new master mid-rescue. Dante drew him up. As for me -- well, I am an adequate climber. I acquired only thirty new bruises in the process._ "

"A handsome tally," Iris muses, leaning her shoulder against his. "So he was a stray?"

" _A decidedly lively one. We went back into the village with our find under Dante's arm and acquired a sizeable flour-sack to carry him in. I held the beast the rest of the way home. Of course, we rode on horses, so our struggles were greatly mitigated._ "

"What did your parents have to say about your ... find?"

" _He chewed a pair of my father's shoes to nothing, so they were quite pleased._ "

Iris smiles at the image. "Your father seems a tolerant man."

Barry nods, resting his chin on his arms pensively. " _He was. A fair king, and a good man. He enjoyed_ Houblon."

Not wanting to intrude, but inevitably curious, Iris asks, "What became of him?"

Barry looks over at her, eyes unreadable. " _He was gored by a boar four years ago._ "

Iris swallows. "That's awful."

" _He wanted to impress a Duke._ " With a disgusted scoff, Barry straightens. He seems snarly, and she regrets dimming his good mood, but then he looks at her and softens again. " _I do not want you to think of him only in his last moments,_ " he says, holding out his arm. She lays hers carefully on top of it, and together they walk back to the castle.

" _His father's father was the third king to inhabit this place,_ " Barry explains, holding the door open. Stepping through it, they walk slowly, taking it all in. " _For six generations, my family has ruled this land._ " Smiling ruefully, he allows, " _I have been the first to break the line._ "

"You are still a prince, are you not?" Iris reminds.

He bows his head. " _For now._ " Clearing his throat, he continues down the silent hall. " _My father was the kind of man you approached when you needed something. He was generous, but brusque, and always spoke his mind. He tolerated none of my absences. He was always king first and father second._ " Leading her to the stairs, he lets his arm drop slowly. She walks alongside him to the next floor. " _He didn't laugh often, but he laughed sincerely. He hugged hard, but you came to think all other hugs were soft, and his were what such gestures were meant to be._ "

He holds his silence so long she thinks he will not speak. Leading her down the east wing, he asks at last, " _What of yours? He seems a determined man._ "

Iris smiles, even though it aches in her chest to think of him. "He is determined," she agrees. "Warm. Competent. Protective. A magnificent cook, and a fearless father. He believes in everything he does, or he will not do it."

" _What does he do?_ "

"He's an inventor by trade," Iris explains. "Mostly he's a handyman. Invention is more of a hobby."

" _What has he invented?_ "

"Well, he was working on a machine to chop wood on its own, but it -- malfunctioned," Iris finishes.

Barry laughs. " _There's a story there,_ " he says, holding a door open for her. She steps inside the room, looking around the hall. A large grand piano occupies the left corner of the room, idly playing a tune as it basks in the moonlight. Barry's tune changes when he sees it, declaring, " _The finest maestro in France. Dante Ramon._ "

"I began to think I had been forgotten," Dante says, turning towards them languorously. "You have thoroughly reclaimed my brother's interest. Where have you been, old friend?"

Walking over to the piano, The Beast rests a hand on its cover. " _I have been ... occupied,_ " he allows before he turns to her. " _Dante, I would like to introduce you to someone._ " Nodding in the piano's direction, Barry waits until Iris has drawn up alongside him before announcing, " _This is the_ _Lady Iris Ann West._ "

Iris smiles and does a little curtsey. "Pleasure to meet you."

"A _lady_ ," Dante remarks, amused, tapping out an idle tune. "My, we haven't seen one in -- years, it feels like."

" _Six months_ ," Barry agrees.

Iris startles, looking up at The Beast in surprise. "You have been like this for half a year?"

"And so we shall ever be," Dante says sadly, tone changing. "Ah, to spend another day in the sun!"

" _His brother inherited all the optimism in the family,_ " Barry explains, patting Dante's cover once. " _Have hope, my friend. Days are not as dark as they seem._ " With a private smile, he invites Iris to the window, sitting carefully on the nook, one leg draped over the edge. Iris tucks her own underneath herself.

Dante flits through a more robust tune, and Iris smiles. "He's magnificent."

"He appreciates it," Dante replies, pleased. "Have you any preference?"

"I'm afraid it's been a terribly long time since any bards have graced our town," Iris admits.

Waiting a beat, Barry smiles.  " _Mendelssohn_ ," he prompts, " _Opus 19._ "

"A classic," Dante says, clearing his throat. "Let us begin."

[And so he does.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M9eKu32kV0k)

Iris closes her eyes, leaning back against the wall. The song is quick and light, like a dim candle flickering in an empty room.  It fills her with an almost palpable sense of awe.  "It's _wonderful_ ," she croons. Barry's deep hum of agreement is the sole response. Nonplussed, Dante carries on.

Iris does not know nor care how long Barry intended to bring her here, for she does not twitch from her perch as Dante plays. The music dances over her skin, a lightness of being that elevates her to the scene Barry painted before: the handsome prince at the door, greeting guests with a pomp-and-circumstantial smile, preluding the king's appearance with all the charm and wit he can summon. Opening her eyes, she looks at him and sees his own eyes are closed, and she wonders if he is not there as well, another place, another time.  Closing her eyes again, she joins him.

" _Bonjour, Mademoiselle," the prince says, dressed in deep blue regalia, kissing her hand. "You look lovely."_

 _"_ _You are as handsome as ever," she replies, looking around the foyer and smiling. "Little has changed, and it is still exquisite every time."_

 _"_ _We have an excellent staff attending it," the prince demurs, holding out an arm for her. She rests a hand on it lightly, surprised he would offer it to her -- surely there are others who might claim his time? -- but not contesting the offer. "I hope your journey was not difficult," he says, guiding her deeper into the hall, passing chatting couples and idle laughter from some corner or another. "The weather has been rather violent these past few days."_

 _"_ _Nothing a lady and a strong carriage cannot handle," she assures. Her heart flutters when he pauses, standing at attention, and around a corner sweeps the king himself._

_Lowering his arm, Barry bows and introduces, "My father, King Henry."_

_Curtseying, Iris replies, "Bonjour, Your Highness."_

_"_ _Bonjour, Mademoiselle," King Henry replies. "It is a pleasure to have you again."_

 _"_ _I would not miss it," Iris assures._

_King Henry smiles, then says, "Forgive me, I must find my wife" and leaves them._

_The prince exhales and turns to her, his smile polite and hopeful. "Come. I want to show you something."_

_Iris follows him out into the gardens, fireflies flickering in the summer air. "Wherever are we going?" she asks, but she knows she would follow him anywhere, and he smiles and keeps his silence._

_Around the corner they sweep, and she sees rows upon rows of roses, gorgeous, illustrious things, her breath escaping her. "Oh, my prince," she says. "These are exquisite."_

_"_ _We have been trying for years to raise them," the prince elaborates. "They are a finicky plant, but a grand one."_

_Stepping forward, she kneels and brushes a hand along one._

_Without warning, a terrible sound shatters the silence, a monstrous roar at her back--_

Iris gasps, opening her eyes, and finds The Beast watching her, brow furrowed in concern. Dante, unperturbed, plays on, but Iris rises, leaving the room with undue haste.

Heart pounding, she puts her back to the wall, attempting to calm her pounding heart. From the room, she hears footsteps approach and pause. Barry asks, " _Iris?_ "

"Forgive me," she says, hand at her collar. "It's nothing."

" _Can I help?_ "

"I would like a moment alone, please," she requests. Without a word, he retreats, footsteps padding away.

 _Have you fallen in love with him?_ Wally asked her in the woods, harsh and at once deniable, for she had most certainly _not_. Yet looking upon The Beast -- horned and clawed and monstrous -- she cannot erase the fact that she had almost forgotten who he was in favor of who she wanted him to be. _He's not a man. He's a beast._

Whatever flights of fancy she entertained otherwise were just that.

_Father was right. I shouldn't have come._

Leaving him in the room, she strides briskly down the hall, taking the stairs quickly.

She doesn't see the clock, the candelabra, or the feather-duster watching her anxiously from a ledge.

* * *

"What happened?" Cisco asks, easing the door shut behind himself as he hops into the room.

Barry shakes his head, paws buried in the fur near his horns. "I have no idea," he admits. "Perhaps a piano was the wrong choice?"

"I'm sorry, _mon ami_ ," Dante says.

"It's not your fault," Barry assures, dropping his paws and looking over at the brothers. "If anyone's, it's mine. I should talk to her."

"Excellent idea," Cisco agrees.

Dante makes a disagreeing sound. "Speak your mind," Barry says, looking at the piano.

"She seemed ... somewhat disarmed," he says carefully. "Perhaps a moment alone is what she needs, to reclaim her wits."

"I fear she may have reclaimed them already," Barry admits. When Cisco cocks his head at him, he elaborates, "You didn't see the way she looked at me. Like I was this ... _monster._ "

Cisco and Dante hesitate. "Not to be insensitive," Cisco begins.

"But I look like one," Barry finishes, pressing a paw to his forehead. "I know."

"I'm sure she will come around," Cisco assures, hopping over to his side. "Things have been going so well!"

Barry feels sick to his stomach, recalling the horror in her eyes when she looked at him, taking off with far too much haste to be proper.

"We can salvage this," Cisco insists. "A stumble is nothing!"

Looking at his faint reflection in the windows, Barry admits, "This may be more than a stumble, my friend."

* * *

Iris doesn't stop moving until she reaches Volo, the white mare immediately perking up when she sees Iris. Taking the horse's reins, Iris hesitates, unsure what she wants to do next. Running seems wrong, but she can't bring herself to turn around. She hugs the horse's neck.

"What have I done?" she asks. The horse does not respond, pushing her snout against Iris' back questioningly. "It's all right, Volo," she assures, but she cannot bring herself to believe her own words.

_He's a man. A prince. Not a monster._

_He's a cursed prince,_ she reminds herself, and it sinks in slowly that for all his gestures, he is a Beast for _some_ reason. _A monster with a silver tongue_.

When he opens the doors, she sees him at his full eight-feet, his expression neutral. His fangs jut visibly along the tense line of his jaw. His horns curl behind his head. She can't see his claws, but she knows they're present, sharp, terrible things. His broad chest dwarfs even the largest bears she has encountered, and his tail swishes behind him, a perennial reminder that he is not human.

Hesitating, he takes a step forward. She sees the white linen she wrapped around his leg, still present, dirty-red with blood. " _I'm sorry,_ " he begins.

Volo whickers anxiously when he takes another step, and he halts. Iris does not leave her horse's side, staring at him, trying to sort out her feelings, to divide man from monster.

" _If you wish to leave,_ " he continues quietly, " _I will escort you._ "

To be with her father, at home, in the good little provincial town seems suddenly heavenly, but she cannot speak. Staring at him, she cannot dismiss _Barry_ , even in the way he shuffles on those arched heels, broad shoulders hunched inward. No more is he just a Beast: it is impossible to dismiss him out of hand. He is neither man nor brute, somewhere in-between.

But he _is_ a Beast, not a prince, and it will not leave her alone.

"What did you do," she asks slowly, "to become a Beast?"

He looks at her for a long moment, blue-green eyes fixed on her. His paws flex, searching for words.

At last, he says, " _Before my father died, I was temperamental, rude, and belligerent at times. After his death, I was solely these things._

" _Six months ago, a woman interrupted one of my mother's balls. I told her the circumstances -- one needed to be invited_ _to attend such gatherings -- but she ignored my rebuff. She said she only wanted quarter to shelter from the storm._

" _How she had made it to our castle in such inclement weather, I didn't know. But I didn't care. I was angry, and I told her that our doors weren't open for the traveler, regardless of their reasons._

" _Then she offered me a rose. I had hundreds; I didn't need hers. I should have rejected her then and there. But I didn't._

" _I pretended to admit her. I introduced her to the floor, and people laughed, for I told them she was the queen of a destitute kingdom of one. I threw my cloak over her, for royal blues were the only color befitting such a creature._

" _I let their laughter and her silence provoke me into a show of arrogance and cruelty. When at last I took the rose from her hand, I held it up high so that I could examine it in front of the crowd. I barely looked at it before I cast it aside. Was it not even made of gold, I challenged her, a gift worthy for a prince?_

" _It was then that she rose to her full height. Before our eyes, she transformed into a beautiful woman, awash in golden light. In terror, the guests fled. The servants alone stood by me, their terrible prince, and the Witch cast a spell upon us all._

" _I became a Beast, and they forever at my service.  And so we shall remain, once the last petal falls."_

He stops speaking, but Iris cannot find her own voice. She can see it, all too vividly: the lofty image of the pampered and cruel prince lording his power over the beggar, humiliating her in front of a room full of people. Disgust mounts in her until she cannot even look at him. "You are a monster," she realizes lowly.

" _Iris_ ," he entreats. " _It is who I was. I'm sorry every day for it._ "

"You are sorry because you were punished," she says, meeting his gaze. She isn't fearful; she's furious. "You wish it hadn't happened because something bad happened to _you_. To _them._ " Waving a hand to indicate the whole castle, she asks disbelievingly, "How could you curse them all for your mistake?"

" _I_ begged _the Witch to spare them_ ," he says, voice surprisingly steady. _Now_ he's learned to control his temper, Iris thinks caustically. " _I never wanted their involvement._ "

"Yet they are involved. All because you could not hold your tongue." Stepping away from Volo, she walks towards him, demanding, "How long were you going to keep this from me?"

His eyes hide nothing. _Forever, if I could_. He looks down, but it's too late: she's seen the truth in them. "You weren't going to tell me," she surmises flatly. "Were you? You were going to brush it all under the rug and hope I never asked."

" _I'm sorry_."

"Did you tell that to her?"

Barry's -- The Beast's -- jaw stiffens. " _Of course I did. Many times. And then she left. She has not returned since._ "

"I can't blame her."

He drops onto his haunches, subtracting two feet of height, but he cannot erase how animal he looks. " _I made a terrible mistake. I cannot change that._ "

"An omission of the truth is a lie," she says. "You _lied_ to me, Barry." Scoffing at herself, she shakes her head. "I can't believe I pitied you. You are a selfish, spoiled little boy."

He doesn't rise to her anger, just watching her unblinking across the lawn. She hates him for it, hates his composure. " _What do you want me to do?_ " he asks. He sounds genuinely apologetic. She doesn't care. He has had six months to rehearse his apologies. Is there any way to know if they are sincere? Given the circumstances, can any of them be?

_If he were not sculpted in a monster's image, he would still be one._

It makes her sick and -- _sad_ , if she's being honest. "There must be a way to end the curse."

He doesn't move. He barely breathes.

"There is," she continues, "isn't there?"

He looks down at his paws and she walks up to him, pausing just in front of him. "Six months, and you couldn't chain your own arrogance down long enough to resolve it?"

That finally draws a low growl from him. She welcomes it; she hates being the only one emotional, the only one in an argument. "What are you waiting for?"

Working his jaw, he glares at her. " _It's not that simple._ "

"What is it?" she demands.

He exhales harshly. " _If I tell you_ ," he snaps, and her heart rate picks up, relieved and agitated in equal parts that he is rising to meet her challenge, " _then I will damn everyone in this castle to oblivion._ "

"That's what will happen when the rose dies," Iris realizes. "They'll all die."

" _No_."

She's not expecting it. Frowning, she steps forward, just shy of arm's reach, and repeats, "No?"

A deep, agitated growl builds in his chest. This close, she can almost feel it. " _I have had six months to think over everything you accuse me of now,_ " he reminds her. Then, working to hold his composure, he explains, " _If the curse is not lifted before the last petal falls, they will become their accoutrements, and I will stay like this._ "

Horror briefly occludes hurt. "They'll be immortalized as furniture?"

" _They'll be erased from existence._ " He rises to his full height and finishes, " _And I will remain a Beast._ "

It escapes her before she can even think to stop it: "Beasts do not live as long as humans."

He sneers at her. "' _When the last petal falls,'_ " he says, voice deep and final, reciting something: "' _your servants will succumb, and you shall remain, in perpetuity, sole proprietor of this frozen kingdom._ '"

Iris stares. Her periphery vanishes, focus arrested on him as he stands before her. She is reminded of their first encounter, of her breath catching in her chest, of a sense of wonder and terror filling her, a sweeping desire to know more overtaking her good sense. Stepping forward, she pushes the boundaries, and he holds still, not retreating. Quietly -- for she can only be quiet, this close -- she asks, "What does that mean?"

He lowers himself to his haunches. He is still six inches taller than her. " _It means I will never succumb to illness or age. I will never senesce. I will live, forever, as a Beast, until something or someone kills me._ "

She shivers and hugs her arms. "And the kingdom..."

" _Will remain as is. Perfectly isolated, perpetually frozen in time. The Witch erased all knowledge of our presence from the minds of those who knew us,_ " he says, and something clicks in Iris' mind, a curtain lifted. " _The wolves take care of the wanderers._ " Shaking his head, he adds in thoughtful tone, " _I confess, I am surprised they did not kill you. Twice._ "

"Frozen in time," she repeats, frowning. "You said you were cursed six months ago ... this is the same night," she realizes, "isn't it? It's not winter in June at all. It's still January here."

" _It is ... a reminder,_ " Barry allows, " _an inescapable one. Of who I was, and profess to no longer be._ " He doesn't even feign a self-deprecating smile. " _I am ... far from the person I want to be. But I_ am _sorry. I'm sorry my friends are caught up in this, and that you are as well._ "

"I came back," she tells him, and she does not imagine his little flinch at the implied accusation. _I came back for you. For this._ But her next words are calmer, coming-to-terms: "I am at least partially to blame."

" _No. The fault is mine, and mine alone. Because I created the obligation. I kidnapped your very_ father," he says, and sounds so self-disgusted it actually hurts. " _Then I imprisoned you. When you tried to leave, I knew you would not get far without encountering wolves, and so I..._ " He trails off, finishing, " _I created an obligation. One you never had to fulfill, but you did. And here we are._ " Looking at the horse, now nearly at the gates, he says, " _I have, now, several debts to repay. Allow me to attend at least one of them and escort you to the edge of the woods. Then you may return to your father and your life and be rid of mine._ "

She doesn't say anything for a moment. "If I leave, you'll be here. Forever."

He bows his head. " _A truth I have come to terms with._ "

"Have you?" she challenges, finally intruding his personal space and placing a hand on his wrist. It's warm, exquisitely so, and she must suppress the urge to fold herself into his arms. "You seem ... quite different, now that I am here."

" _You have changed the whole dynamic of the place_ ," he admits, paw flexing like he wants to take her hand but staying at his side. " _But I knew from the moment you came that you would not stay._ "

"But I have," she says slowly, "and now your plan to mope in your own misery for eternity has been interrupted."

He huffs. It's almost amused. " _You've been speaking with Cisco_."

"It's not difficult to infer," she admits. Conceding, she steps forward. He straightens to his full height, and she draws his right arm around her carefully, holding onto his paw with both hands, slung across her like a sash. "I do not know what to make of you," she admits. She can feel him breathing at her back, warm with every steady inhale and exhale. "I am torn."

He applies the slightest pressure, hugging her. She thinks of his father's hard hugs and squeezes his paw tightly in reply. " _If you were not, I would be worried,_ " he admits. " _Skepticism keeps us alive._ "

"It also keeps us in good company." Leaning back against him, she closes her eyes. She feels no repulsion or fear, only relief at his warmth, and relief, indeed, at his company. "Time may be frozen in this place," she observes, "but it has not frozen for you. You've changed."

" _I hope for the better,_ " he admits.

She steps out of his embrace, meeting his gaze. "It's cold enough that I'm willing to chance it."

He nods, and steps back, clearing his throat. " _Let us ... find you a cloak. For your journey._ " He pads back up the steps, pauses, and turns back to her. " _Unless you would rather leave immediately?_ "

"It is scarcely two miles to the edge of the woods," she says. "To the rest of France, it is the heart of summer." He leans forward as though to take a step down, but she finishes, "Still, that is nearly an hour on horseback." Walking up the steps to join him, she permits, "I could spare a moment."

He presses open the door. She proceeds before him, sighing in relief at the warmth. "I could spare several moments," she amends, and though he holds himself a little more stiffly, his lips twitch in a small smile.

" _I have time_." He rocks lightly on his heels. His paws click when they strike the floor. Iris finds herself more amused than anything by the boyishness of the gesture. " _I also have a--_ " Whatever he intends to say gets lost in a sharp yelp when _Houblon_ flies underneath his feet, taking out The Beast in one fell swoop. " _A dog_ ," he finishes eloquently, wrestling the footstool into his arms and holding it up to her.

Taking it into her arms, Iris replies, "A beast for a Beast. How apropos."

" _In some sense, he is even more refined than I am._ "

Iris laughs. She sees some of the tension sinks out of his shoulders, even as he rubs his left leg gingerly. "If you say so," she teases, smiling as she holds the footstool up to eye level. "Isn't that right, _Houblon_?"

Barking once, _Houblon_ cuddles in her arms. Barry draws himself to his feet with an amused shake of his head. " _Some days I wonder why I rescued you_ ," he tells the footstool.

"You would have missed him terribly," Iris fills in, and his little smile makes it clear that the truth resonates with more than just _Houblon_.

" _What I meant to say_ ," he continues, brushing his paws down his shirt once to smooth it, " _is that I also have a substantial selection of cloaks. Come with me._ "

* * *

"They're allowed to fight," Caitlin reassures Cisco.

Sitting on the windowsill, Cisco looks particularly forlorn as he watches Barry and Iris argue, turning baleful eyes upon Caitlin. "Perhaps it is even necessary," she insists.

"If she leaves us forever, it will scarcely be necessary," he says, deflating when Barry growls. " _Mon ami_ , what have you done?"

They can't hear the conversation, but the tone is sharp, edgy, and Cisco turns away and hops off. "I cannot stand this."

"Where are you going?" Caitlin asks.

"To commiserate with the spoons."

He disappears around the corner, but Caitlin stays at her perch, watching closely. It's difficult to read their conversation, but she relaxes when Iris steps into Barry's reach. He doesn't make a move, but she pulls his paw around her, a one-armed embrace, and Caitlin smiles.  _Good man._

Making herself scarce before they notice her watching, she hobbles off to find Cisco.

* * *

"Sometimes I do not understand him!" Cisco articulates, waving his arms as he paces in front of a row of nodding silver spoons. "Has he no sense of how to speak to a woman? I have rarely met a man so popular and so sin-gu-lar-ly incapable of holding a conversation for more than five minutes with another person!"

Silver spoon two hops forward, does a little twirl, and hops back in line. The remaining spoons jump up and down, their form of applause.

"You are useless," Cisco says, but the spoons scarcely lose enthusiasm as they jump up and down. "At least your optimism is unflagging!"

"Perhaps yours should be," Cindy points out, sweeping into the room. "You worry over every move, but you must let them work out the snares. I was certainly not charmed with _your_ every move."

Cisco gawks. "When have I ever, in my entire life, done anything wrong?"

Cindy floats down and does a twirl. The spoons jump up and down approvingly. "Often enough to be noteworthy," she says, flicking his nose with a feather. "Relax, _mon chéri._ They will be fine."

Cisco insists, "I want to believe! But he gives me so much reason to doubt his competency!"

"She's still here," Cindy reminds. "That's a start."

Groaning, Cisco flops dramatically onto his back. He yelps when he lands, harder than anticipated.

The spoons applaud, and he sighs. "At least _they_ understand me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New cast:  
> DANTE = GRAND PIANO. (Cadenza.)
> 
> French:  
>  _Mon chéri_ = My darling.


	12. Chapter 12

Never underestimate the lengths a man with power will go to salt the Earth of his enemies.

* * *

_One day prior._

Even horse-less, the Distinguished Captain Hunter Zolomon does not slow. Though he is vulnerable to the wolves, he is not unarmed. His shotgun presses against his back with every step; his fists ache for the fight. Steaming with rage, he fears nothing the woods have to offer, for there was never a beast Hunter could not kill.

Staggering through the snow, he follows hoof-prints to the edge of the castle grounds. The change is stunningly abrupt: one moment he sees only silver snow, the next a field of green grass. Stepping across the snowline, Hunter exhales January and inhales June.

The fresh air elevates his mood considerably. Removed from the biting cold, he regains a broad, powerful stride, sallying forth with conviction. Though he may have lost the battle, there is still a war to fight. And if there was never a beast Hunter could not kill, neither was there a war he could not win.

Approaching forty, it's been almost three years since his last distinguished fight. It's time for another rousing tournament. After all, he always loved a good fight. Perhaps he should even thank the girl for the opportunity.

Crushing a branch underfoot, he smiles. _No one's slick, nor as quick, as I am,_ he reflects, crossing a ten-foot creek in three long strides. _No one else is the king's choicest pick, but Zol'mon. There's no man in town half as manly, nor more perfect a pure paragon. And though she might run from my off'rings, I know which side Iris will choose to be on._

Over the course of two hours, he covers a distance equal to half a marathon. On the outskirts of town, he fires his gun once announce his triumphant return. Exhausted but in possession of undiminished spirits, he welcomes the band of three that greets him at the road. "Gods be good -- it's the Captain!" Dick proclaims, waving a hat in greeting before he skids to a halt.

"My dear sir," Tom frets, puffing and catching up to him, "are you all right? What became of your horse?"

"The wolves got to him," Hunter admits, lacquering the story with truth. He keeps his tone solicitous as he adds, "May God give rest to the poor beast."

"Are you hurt?" Stanley asks, halting with his fellows.

"Quite unharmed!" Hunter assures cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to stagger the man. "Though in possession of a _fiendish_ appetite."

"Of course," Tom agrees, about-facing and leading the way to the tavern. "Come, come! We still have plenty of pheasants to feast upon."

"Plenty," Dick concurs, walking alongside Hunter's right. Stanley mirrors him on Hunter's left. "You must tell us of your travels while we eat."

Hunter puts on an air of dignified indifference as he says, "Why, it was hardly eventful. Were it not for my horse, there would be no story to tell."

"Were you not accompanied by the servant boy?" Dick prompts.

Hunter's jaw firms. Derision creeps into his tone. "The fool felt his time as my servant had come to a close."

Tom holds the door for them. Dick steps through, but Stanley pauses to gawk. "He deserted?"

"I'm afraid so." Stepping inside the room, Hunter beams at the crowd. "Fear not! Your captain has not abandoned you so easily."

"Thank God," a man says, rushing forward to shake his hand. "We were so worried, Zolomon!"

Hunter shakes his hand hard enough that the man grimaces. As far as Hunter is concerned, every interaction, no matter how small, is a contest. "My good sir," Hunter begins, releasing his hand. Then, blanking, he admits, "I don't actually know who you are."

The man laughs unselfconsciously. "Quite all right! Slick has spoken so highly of your escapades, I felt we had already been introduced. I'm Albert Rothstein."

"As soon as I heard you were in town, I insisted on reuniting with you, only to find you'd left it," Edward Slick explains, stepping forward as Al backs off. "The most Distinguished Captain in France. How lucky are we to be together again." Grasping Hunter's hand, he shakes it. Hunter squeezes it hard enough to hear bone creak before letting go. To his credit, the man's bracing attitude does not falter. "Last I saw you, we were under fire," Ed continues. "How nice it is to meet under calmer circumstances."

"I'm afraid these aren't quiet times," Hunter admits, snagging a man's mug and taking a deep swig. The fire in his belly is draconian and welcome. Carelessly, he replaces the mug and looks around. "I have traveled far; have I nowhere to sit?"

Ed frowns. Waving a hand, he orders over the dull roar of the crowd, "Bring the captain a chair!" Immediately, two men scramble to comply, producing a throne-like seat from the back room and placing it in front of the hearth. Striding across the room, Hunter takes a dignified seat, and the noise dulls to an intrigued murmur.

"Have I nothing to eat?" Hunter challenges.

"Our manners have deserted us," Stanley says apologetically, fetching up a handsome plate of cooked pheasant from someone else's table. "Will this do?"

Hunter takes it in hand and tears a sizeable chunk from the pheasant's side, devouring the bird in less time than it takes the average man to mount a horse. "A fine hors d'oeuvres," he laughs, inviting the crowd to join in. "But surely even children dine on more substantial scraps?" Flexing an arm, he lowers it to the chair and reminds, "As a lad, I ate four dozen eggs. Nowadays, I eat five. If one does not threaten the local population of a given avian species, one is not dining correctly." Passing the plate back dismissively, he demands, "Have you no men among you?"

"Ah, _Zol'mon_ , my friend, how I have missed you," Ed says, clapping him on the shoulder. "You heard the man!" he calls to the others. "Bring the fine captain his due, and he will give you a story to sing of for _generations_."

Hunter laughs indulgently. "Well, I wouldn't say _generations_ ," he teases, taking a newly offered bird and scarfing it down. Propping his feet up on a footstool, he asks, "What would you like to hear first?"

"Tell us about the servant boy," Dick prompts. "What of this deserter?"

"Ah, yes." Hunter wipes his mouth on a handkerchief. "Where do I begin? The Good Doctor Wells recommended him to me eight weeks ago. 'He possesses a strong personality, but he's a dedicated man!'" Waving a hand, he continues, "Alas, it was not to be. For we rode deep into the woods together, he upon his pony, me upon my beloved _Gilgamesh,_ and encountered wolves.

"When a wolf lunged for my servant's mount, he panicked. Though I shot the wolf dead, the boy's wits had left him. He took off. I shouted after him, for I feared what would become of him alone in the woods, but he refused to listen. Distracted as I was, I could not fire upon the wolves, who fell upon _Gilgamesh_ and tore the beast down from underneath me."

Hunter places an emotional hand to his mouth, catering to his enraptured audience. "I did my very best to save _Gilgamesh_ ," he says, laying the emotion on thick. "I even fought the beasts bare-handed." Unbuttoning his cuffs, he shrugs down his sleeves to reveal the bloody marks from his encounter with the wolves that jumped the saddle. "But even I am only so capable. I could not reverse time, and my steed succumbed to his wounds."

"How terrible," Stanley murmurs.

"Indeed it was," Hunter agrees, toasting him with someone else's mug. "My brave steed did not once leave my side and did not deserve to die for his loyalty. My servant boy, on the other hand." Shaking his head in frustration, he carries on. "Once I had beat back the wolves -- for they saw they could not best me, and did as only wolves are wont to do: run -- I searched for my servant boy. For hours, I wandered those woods alone, looking for any sign of him."

Ed shakes his head, claiming a chair nearby. "You are a noble man, Zolomon. Few would even try to find such a coward."

Hunter preens privately under the praise. Outwardly, he maintains a reserved grace, draping a leg over the chair's arm. "I couldn't abandon a fellow man to the wilderness, even if he had left me in a dire hour." Smiling at his own joke, he explains, "But my efforts were in vain. Try though I might, I was unable to track him down."

"Has he even a weapon?" Al asks.

"Oh, yes," Hunter says darkly, voice shifting to a lower, more threatening tone. "He relieved me of my handgun while I was attending my horse. I saw it on his hip during our encounter with the wolves. He scarcely knows how to discharge it; why he would steal such a weapon is beyond me."

"A deserter and a thief," Tom scoffs. "You were right to leave him, Captain."

"What of the others?" an unfamiliar woman prompts, stepping forward from the crowd. Hunter turns to her and smiles.

"What others?"

"Joe and Wally."

"Ah, old Joseph!" Hunter slaps a knee. "What stories he has to tell! I accompanied him for a time, searching for his 'beast,' but we found only empty woods." The more he talks, the easier the lie becomes, truer and truer in his mind. Soon whatever story he tells will replace reality, leaving him with only a honey-smooth cadence and a conviction to match his steel-toed boots. "I fear the old boy has become somewhat absentminded. His daughter is fine -- simply visiting another part of the country! A father will make the most extraordinary excuses to guard against accusations of prying into his daughter's life," he adds with a wink.

The girl folds her arms across her chest, frowning. "Then they are still in the woods?"

"Last I saw! They refused my guidance and further offers to help them kill a substitute beast for the feast. I fear the old boy's pride has been deeply wounded, now that the truth has come to light. They insisted on searching another day!"

"It was noble of you to make such an offer," Tom says, setting a mug before him. "Truly. The old boy's been off his rocker for years now. We might be best to ... disentangle ourselves from him."

"I quite agree," Hunter says solemnly, hiding a smile behind a swig from his mug. "You know, there are _institutions_ , now, for people of such ... unusual fancies."

"I've heard of them," Dick agrees, sitting across from him. "They're quite popular."

"Straighten out even the most bent pipe," Stanley concurs, leaning on a table. "He won't utter a word of beasts again after a few weeks in one of those places."

"Such a change would bring him peace of mind," Hunter says. "The whole endeavor has made him quite hysterical."

Al nods sympathetically. "So it would any father. Have you any children, Captain?"

Hunter laughs, big and inviting. "I have an appetite for a wife, but no children from her."

"The _belle_ girl," Dick supplies.

Hunter nods. "Precisely."

"Are you sure you want to marry into this family?" Ed warns. "Girls who venture into the woods, fathers who contrive beasts to hunt -- it seems unstable."

Hunter waves a hand dismissively. "Was there ever a girl I could not subdue?" he challenges. "To tame a show-horse is no achievement. To tame an undomesticated steed is to prove one's prodigious skills. I find the challenge enlivening."

Dick chuckles. "My God, Zolomon, you are something else."

"Something superior, I hope," Hunter warns, taking a proffered mug from Al with a smile. "My good sir, you'd make a fine servant. Have you any previous engagements?"

Ed shoulders in with a robust, "Old chap, you seek to replace me?"

Placing a bone-breaking hand on Ed's shoulder, Hunter smiles. "I wished to test your loyalty," he corrects, letting go. "A captain should never settle."

"Indeed he shouldn't," Ed agrees, knocking his mug against Hunter's. "You deserve better than this town has to offer, Hunter. Why not be on our way, find fairer maidens in finer country?"

Hunter shakes his head, setting his mug down. He did not come this far to walk away empty-handed. "No," he says. "I will not settle for the second most beautiful woman in France. I will have the first, or no man will have her."

Stanley chuckles nervously. "What are you implying, Captain?"

"Our _Belle_ will marry me," he says, "or she will not marry at all. No sane woman will resist my charms."

"Surely not," Stanley agrees. "Any woman would choose you. Every woman has."

"Precisely." Pounding a fist on the chair, Hunter announces, "I will have Iris West for my wife."

"An elusive wife," the girl from the back remarks. Her expression is flat; her tone, unimpressed. "How will you marry a woman who is not present?"

Hunter waves a hand dismissively, refusing to rise to the bait of this girl. "She will return."

"If she is truly captive by a beast," the girl presses, and Hunter's jaw tenses in aggravation, "she will not be able to do so on her own. How could you abandon her?"

"She is _not_ captive to any _beast_ ," he snaps. Visibly forcing down his anger, he adds with a false smile, "I saw her. She is quite well."

"Yet you did not bring her back."

Hunter scowls. "Who are you?"

"Jesse," she says. "Jesse Quick."

"Harrison Quick -- he is your father?" Tom correlates. "The owner of the tavern?"

"The same."

Hunter scoffs. "He will be disappointed to learn his daughter harasses his patrons."

"He," says a new voice harshly, "would request that the good _captain_ hold his tongue in all matters regarding his daughter."

"Ah," Hunter says, standing and smiling. His charm has teeth, like a crocodile's smile. "Well, this must be our Monsieur Quick."

"Father," Jesse interludes, but Hunter steps forward, crowding the man's space, pleased to claim a solid two inches of height on him. "Don't."

Harrison Quick's eyes are molten blue, sharp and unamused. "Daughter." The implication is clear:  _stand down._

Jesse steps back. Hunter lounges with a hand on the wall, looming over Monsieur Quick, unalarmed by this new challenger. Somewhat pleased, if he is forthright; he aches for a fight. "Harry," he says, fireside amiable. "May I call you Harry?"

"No."

"Very well. Harry. Your daughter interrupts my gathering. Have you taught her nothing of manners?"

Harrison shoves him hard. Both Dick and Stanley leap to their feet as Ed shouts, but Hunter ripostes immediately, thundering, "Gentlemen! This is not how we conduct ourselves."

"You will leave," Harrison orders, and Hunter wants to punch him but cannot chance appearances, "or I will have the sheriff drag your sorry carcass away."

"Pah," Tom spits, marching towards the doors. "Come, Hunter, let the old man steam."

"Tom's right," Dick agrees, and Stanley follows the other men as Al and Ed remain.

Ed seems most volatile, informing in a low voice, "It would not be disorderly for you to retort, Good Captain."

"A Good Captain never retorts in such a brusque manner with peasants," Hunter dismisses, sweeping out of the room. Everyone watches him cross the floor, and he senses his nonreactive response only adds to their conviction that he is right. The Good Captain doesn't fight petty wars. He is decisive and merciless, efficient in every way. He is appealing to all, justice personified. Looking around, Hunter knows he has their vote. "I will fetch the girl, and wed her, as proof of my word," he states, sweeping through the doors. "I am nothing if not an honorable man."

"No one's more honorable, _Zol'mon_ ," Tom decrees, leading the way. "No one's half as stout-hearted, nor half as strong."

"The beasts in the woods tell stories of you," Ed agrees solemnly, walking alongside him as his right-hand man. Hunter lets him. He likes the man's temper; he could use someone dynamitic at his side.

"As they should," Al agrees, following with Dick and Stanley. "For who wouldn't fear the greatest Captain in France?"

Hunter straightens his coat and keeps his pleasure to himself, expression smooth. "I am weary from my travails," he says at last. "No challenge exceeds my abilities, but I would like to be fresh when I meet my future wife. I shall depart tomorrow at noon."

"Might you find room for a second? It would be my honor to accompany you once again, Captain," Ed prompts.

"If Ed goes, then I, too, shall go," Al pledges.

"A fine entourage," Tom acknowledges, "fit for a man of your stature."

" _Courir_ finds no challenge too daunting," Dick adds. "You may borrow her, Zolomon."

"Your generosity inspires," Hunter says, coming to a halt in the middle of the road. "Though I can outstrip any horse in a long-run tournament, I would prefer to bring my wife home in a more pleasing manner than astride my back like a child." Tom and Stanley chuckle. Ed nods, and Al grins. Dick, for his part, holds out a hand and Hunter shakes it. "Thank you." Turning to his two companions, he adds, "The woods are dangerous."

"If they were not, I would be disappointed," Ed says.

"You are more dangerous than anything they have to offer," Al agrees.

Hunter smiles. "As you were, Messieurs." Turning, he strides down the cobbled path confidently, leaving his companions behind. His chest swells with satisfaction.

Soon he will have his beautiful wife in arms, and this whole nonsense will be behind him. He will travel to a more sizeable town and find a more suitable tournament to showcase his worth. For now -- for now, he reclaims a downy bed at a lodge, closing his eyes and falling into a deep sleep.

In his dreams, he kills not the wolves, but The Beast.

* * *

Humans kill wolves, and wolves kill humans.

That is the law of nature.

Pressing its snout against _Rouge's_ unmoving back, _Dent_ whines, a terrible, ear-splitting sound.

From a distance, _Griffe_ watches. Left shoulder caked in blood, its red eyes burn the same color. " _We failed._ "

 _Dent_ lets its jaw drop, its whine creeping into a scream, a long, drawn-out cry that makes even the trees cower.

" _No amount of mourning will bring it back_ ," _Griffe_ says.

Digging its paws into the snow, _Dent_ presses its forehead against _Rouge's_ back. " _Awaken_ ," it screams. "Rouge _._ "

With a furious snap of its teeth, _Griffe_ charges, plowing into its sibling and sending _Dent_ rolling across the snow. The dire wolf recovers quickly, launching into a spirited retaliation. The wolves paint the snow scarlet in staccato bursts. They are nature, tooth and claw, and when they come to a halt, they're both bleeding anew, bearing _Rouge's_ namesake across their grey fur.

 _Dent_ folds, sinking onto its belly in the snow. " _I surrender._ "

 _Griffe_ lunges forward and sinks its teeth into _Dent's_ neck, making its sibling scream. " _There is no surrender,_ " it reminds, letting go as _Dent_ snaps at it, furious but exhausted. " _None whatsoever. Not with humans._ "

" _We were human, once._ "

 _Griffe_ snaps again at _Dent_ , but _Dent_ is ready for it, latching onto _Griffe's_ leg and tearing hard enough the other wolf backs off. It limps as it walks. _Dent_ doesn't know if it finds the fact saddening or satisfying. Every reaction seems somewhere in between. " _We are not human,_ " _Griffe_ retorts. " _We never were._ "

But _Dent_ shakes its head. " _You forget,_ " it says. " _I forget nothing._ "

 _Griffe_ lunges, but _Dent_ jerks to its feet and dodges. " _You are as pathetic as your precious_ humans,"  _Griffe_ snarls. Its teeth click, but _Dent_ just lowers its head challengingly.

" _Deny me. Say it is not true._ "

Working its jaw, _Griffe_ says nothing. _Dent_ waits, and sees the fight sinking out of _Griffe_ , a world-ending misery situating itself between the wolf's shoulders as its gaze drifts to their fallen companion. " _We were family,_ " it says in a low voice. " _Now_ Rouge _is dead. What does that make us?_ "

 _Dent_ steps forward, seeing _Griffe's_ hackles raise and persisting until they are almost touching. " _Capable,_ " it says firmly. " _It makes us capable of avenging_ Rouge."

 _Griffe_ stares at it for a long time, saying nothing. At last, its eyes fall upon the dire wolf, dead in the snow.

Together, _Dent_ and _Griffe_ dragged their sibling across the snow. They abandoned the horse where it fell an hour's walk away, having eaten it to the bone, leaving the rest for the crows. " _It is what_ Rouge _would have wanted,_ " _Griffe_ says at last.

" _We must kill them,_ " _Dent_ replies.

" _The Beast?_ "

 _Dent_ shakes its head once. " _No._ " Teeth bared, it almost seems to smile. " _We must kill them all._ "

* * *

Deep in the woods, a grey horse struggles on.

"Come on, old boy," Joe encourages, walking alongside Grey. "You are doing magnificently." The horse's every step is slow and halting. Having exhausted the last reserves of adrenaline available to it, Grey plods on, letting out the occasional tired whicker. The brown pony hauls enthusiastically at the reins in Wally's hands, eager to go home, a sharp contrast to its grander elder.

At a crawling walk, they have crossed only four miles since passing the line between castle grounds and outside world. Sundown nears, threatening to plunge the forest in front of them into perfect darkness. "We shall rest here for the evening," Joe commands, halting Grey.

"Shouldn't we continue?" Hartley asks. The nervousness in his tone is not imagined.

But Joe shakes his head, brushing the horse's neck. "If we abandoned Grey, we could, but I brought him here, and I will not be the one to leave him here." Looking at the two of them, he contends, "You are welcome to go on, but I shall remain with him."

Wally shrugs, dismounting and tying the anxious pony to a tree. The brown horse stamps a foot, but stops once it realizes it cannot tug itself free. Fetching provisions from the saddlebag, Wally takes a large bite from an apple. "Jesse will disapprove, but I am sure she would be more upset if I were eaten by wolves."

Joe nods, fetching an apple for himself and Hartley. "We'll leave at first light," he promises, "and be home by mid-morning."

Skeptical but unable to think of a superior argument, Hartley nods and takes the apple. "Very well," he murmurs. "First light."

* * *

In a castle, a Beast and a _Belle_ dose comfortably in a grandiose library, unaware of their companions' circumstances.

In the morning, they will awaken, and dine, and fall apart, returning to an impasse as, with his shoulder to a doorframe, The Beast watches _Belle_ throw a purple cloak upon her shoulders in preparation for an overdue escape.

* * *

_Six months ago._

At the edge of the castle grounds, a witch crosses paths with a wolf.

 _The king,_ the magnificent grey entreats, approaching her, _where is the king? The prince of the house does not permit us to wander near._

Frowning, the witch draws her cloak around her shoulders and asks, "What troubles you?"

 _The hunters,_ the wolf explains. _They grow bolder. They do not observe the peace between us. We have not hunted humans, but they have hunted wolves._

The witch looks to the castle, ablaze with festive light. Looking back at the wolf, she sees the deep puncture mark in its side. "You are wounded," she informs it.

The wolf bows its head. _I must speak with the king. He will return peace to our land._

"I do not wish to be the one to tell you this," the witch says, "but the king is dead."

The wolf stares at her for a long moment. Disbelief and anguish war for dominance. _There is no one to keep the prince in check?_

The witch shakes her head. "I will speak with him," she assures.

The wolf limps forward, lying down within striking distance and looking up at her without blinking. _Will he listen?_

A slight smile twitches the witch's lips, despite the grim circumstances. "If he does not," she says, "he will regret it terribly."

The wolf looks at her for a time, saying nothing. Slowly, it rises, turning and walking off. The witch does not need to follow to know it will not make the night. Something deep and sad crowds out anything she would say to stop it. Watching its back, she lets the wolf go. If she so desired, she could stop any wolf from perishing, any beast upon the Earth from returning to its soil, but she doesn't, for she knows and observes the laws of the Earth.

Walking towards the castle, she tries to put the dying wolf from her mind as she passes through the open gates. The party within the castle walls spills golden light out across the snow. Without being part of it, she knows it is another lavish, sordid affair of lights and laughter and loose tongues.

The bitter cold outside the castle's walls makes each step somewhat sinister, a warning for the rogue traveler that mortal sleep awaits those who rest. Pressing onward, the witch knocks at the door. When no one answers, she unlocks it herself and presses it open. Stepping inside, she seeks her audience with the young future king.

He's not hard to find. Secluded at the head of the ballroom, he sits on a throne and watches the men and women laugh and dance, his own expression unfriendly. Whenever someone makes the mistake of approaching him, he rebuffs them with a handful of words, resuming his silent watch and glancing compulsively at the clock on the wall. He digs a hand into his hair in frustration, and the witch knows it is a bad time to approach.

_All the more reason to._

Stepping forward, she hears the tone in the ballroom shift as she parts the people before her, waves of them rippling outward. They don't alarm and she doesn't make small talk with any of them, focused. To the prince's pedestal she strides. At his feet, she does not bow. "Bartholomew," she commands, voice carrying only to him, the rest of the attendees carrying on their merry way. "We must talk."

The prince looks right at her, but he's not paying attention. His chin rests on the flat of his palm, a leg jaunted up alongside him on the chair. Insolence oozes from every line of his body. "How did you get in?" he asks. The sharp blue cut of his outfit matches the razor edges of his amused half-smile.

"I have come a long way," she says, and it is not untrue, for she has traveled the Earth for centuries, and felled many a grander ruler before him. "Permit me to sit and speak with you. It is a matter most urgent."

His smile broadens, but never reaches his eyes. "Oh, you are an unusual sort. Have you no manners whatever? Inviting yourself in, demanding an audience with me, observing none of the honorifics?"

She refuses to cater. Instead, she says in a low voice, "Tread lightly, my prince."

He barks a laugh, pushing off from his chair and standing. A few guests look over, intrigued, but for the most part the ball continues uninterrupted. "You threaten me?" he asks, stepping down from his pedestal. "What sort of woman threatens her future king?"

She does not blink. He agitates, putting himself in arm's reach, and she could blind or burn or maim him in ten thousand ways, if she so chose. He has no idea, but she does not punish. Yet. _Tread lightly._ "A woman who seeks shelter," she tosses out, baiting him. "What sort of man turns away the weary traveler, amid a storm, no less?"

His eyes narrow. His smile is gone. "You would impose upon me?" he says. His voice acquires a distinct sharp edge as he continues in a low, quick voice, "If you do not vacate my sight, I will have you removed in a manner most unbefitting of even the lowliest woman." His tone clearly says she is one.

The urge to break his jaw is ample, but the witch resists, refusing to rise to his bait. "Perhaps we could speak privately," she suggests, "if my presence so embarrasses you."

"Your existence embarrasses me," he says. "Get out of my sight. You were not invited, and you are not welcome, to this ball."

"Your reputation has not failed you." Looking him up and down, the witch cannot help a tiny scoff. "You are a pampered peacock who flusters at the slightest breeze."

He seizes her wrist and for a moment the witch considers stopping his heart. But if she reacted as strongly to every affront, there would be few royals, indeed. As it stands, he looks at her with wild eyes, and then hears the slight murmur of conversation nearby. Guests are noticing, and even if his tongue is far from silver, his behavior must reflect some imitation of courtesy. Sharpish, he removes his hand and steps back with a simpering smile. "Forgive me," he says with mock regret, "I almost fulfilled your prophecy. How unfortunate that may have been."

"How unfortunate," the witch agrees. She does not feign a smile. She knows her appearance is such that it would only add to his disgust, and she has no intention of indulging him. "Even if you will not shelter me," she says, "I still have a dire manner to discuss with you."

He waves a hand dismissively, turning and walking away. "Discuss," he invites caustically.

"Wolves." He pauses, and she presses on, stepping forward to close the distance. "You kill them for sport now. They do not like it."

He scoffs. "What do you know of _wolves_? A fair maiden like you would scarcely encounter one." His voice bleeds irony over _fair_ , but the witch doesn't remark on it. "Even if you had -- they have no feelings. They're wolves."

"You believe that so sincerely?" the witch asks, aggravation creeping into her tone.

He turns to face her. "Of course I do," he says. "Now leave me, or I will have you forcibly removed."

"This castle is massive. Surely you can spare a single room, a single _chair_ , for me," the witch replies. "Even a corner of the floor would be acceptable. This weather kills."

"The weather kills those who are not strong or smart enough to escape it," the prince defers. "Peasants."

The witch entertains the idea of casting him out into the snow, far, far from his precious castle, without a friend or hope for rescue, only to die slowly from cold, but resists the temptation. An impulse, a whim passes over her. Reaching into a deep pocket in her cloak, she produces a single beautiful red rose. "For my imposition," she says. "A gift."

There are so many emotions in his eyes it is hard to choose just one. Outrage is closest. Still, he keeps his smile, and keeps his composure, as he reaches forward with one of those delicate prince hands and takes the rose just under the flower, holding it up for inspection. "Well," he says, and turns to face his guests. "Look what we have here." His voice, though not loud, draws near immediate quiet. Even the orchestra stops, listening to what the prince has to say.

The witch could surely stop what happens next, but she stands aside, hunched and haggard, as the prince raises his voice and declares, "A _rose_ fit for a _prince_." He holds it up, sniffing it once, and adds in a drawl, "Look upon this beautiful woman, my friends, and wonder! For she approaches me as an equal and offers me an incomparable gift. She must be _royalty._ "

Stripping his own blue cloak from his shoulders, he casts it over her without ever touching her. "Hail, the queen of one! The most destitute of royals still commands an invitation."

Nervous, compulsive laughter begins to build in edges of the room. The prince bows deeply to her, and the laughter grows. "We are so honored to have you," he says. The witch catches sight of a pair of servants, a man and a woman, casting anxious looks at each other. The man steps forward, but the woman takes him by the arm, and the prince continues. "Where would I be without this _beautiful_ gift?" he demands, holding the rose up high. The laughter, having spread far enough to encompass the room, becomes thunderous.

Triumphant, the king-to-be decrees, "Why, I would be nothing but cold and poor, as this _witch_ will be once she returns to her proper place in the world."

He throws the rose upon the floor and the guests applaud.

The witch does not laugh, nor applaud, nor respond in any way for an unsettling moment. At last, she says, "You have made your last mistake."

He snaps his fingers and a pair of guards walk towards them, but the witch straightens from her hunch to her proper height and they pause. Before the prince's widening eyes, the witch transforms, from a filthy, disfigured wench to a woman whose beauty surpasses any possessed by the powdered creatures in the room. She inhales deeply and announces, "Your prince does not deserve his crown." Rising into the air, she burns brighter than any flame.

In panic, the guests flee, crowding their way through the doors. The witch closes her eyes, feeling the magic flowing through her, the laws of Earth and sea and sky contending. _May he return to the Earth,_ she thinks, opening her eyes to stare right at him. Paralyzed, he can do nothing but stare at her. His servants at the edge of the room approach, shouting, but they are helpless to save him. She sees others, by the walls, staring at their prince in undeniable alarm, refusing to leave, terrified to approach.

His mother watches from the edge of the room, summoned by the commotion. From the center of the room, the witch intones, " _From this day forth, I lay a curse upon this castle and all of its inhabitants._ " She waits for them to leave, but they do not abandon him. As the clamor outside dulls to a faint roar in the gardens, she closes her eyes. Casting outward, she feels everyone in the room seize up, no more able to flee than resist her powers. " _You have chosen,_ " she says gravely.

The prince's face becomes ashen, and the witch can almost hear the protest build in his chest, but he cannot make a sound, and she refuses to pity him now. _You are not sorry because you did it_ , she thinks. _You are sorry because you were punished_.

In a low voice, she recites, " _By the laws of the Earth, the land, and mighty sea, I break the age-old confinements placed upon them, and grant them a new life._

" _Those who fled the prince shall surrender their loyalty to him forever, as shall every man, woman, and child for a hundred miles in every direction._ _Those who knew the prince shall forget him forever, and all those curious shall have their efforts dissuaded._ "

Looking upon the prince and his two closest servants, the witch smiles wolfishly. " _This dissuasion,_ " she commands, lowering herself to the floor and stepping towards the wide-eyed prince, " _shall be of their own persuasion._ " Sidestepping him, she approaches his right-hand man first and draws a knife from her cloak, slicing his right cheek shallowly. Holding the knife out, she lets the blood drip from it, and it steams on the floor, disproportionately large, until from the occluding cloud emerges a grey dire wolf.

"Dent," she greets, and the wolf lifts its head and looks at her. " _You will guard the castle with your life, and ensure that no one leaves or enters it. You will make but one exception._ " Stepping towards it, she cups the dire wolf's head in her hands and whispers into its ear, " _The one who will break the curse._ " Brushing a hand over its forehead once, she straightens. The servant boy looks ashen, but he cannot move. The wolf bows to her.

Stepping over to the woman, she repeats the process with a hank of her hair. "Griffe," she announces, and the wolf bows to her, mirroring its sibling. " _You will guard your siblings with your life, and ensure that no one harms or kills them. You will make no exceptions._ " Kneeling, she cups the wolf's head and presses a kiss to its forehead. " _May you succeed._ "

At last, she circles back to the paralyzed prince. Without pity, she snags a rib from him, his face contorting as much as it can withstand in its frozen state, agony in his frozen breath. Dropping the bone to the floor, she greets the wolf that springs to life there with a word: "Rouge." The wolf does not bow. She crouches before it and looks it right in the eye.  " _You are to kill your master, should he harm his servants or your siblings. You will make no exceptions._ " The wolf steps forward, pressing its snout against her hand, and she scruffs it lightly before letting it go and standing.

As one, the three wolves take off, silent and terribly deadly. The witch closes her eyes as horses scream and people panic, the commotion catastrophic outside. As hooves thunder away, the shouts of people become inaudible, the wolves driving them away. _Do not kill them,_ she commands from afar, and they obey, halting as one at the two-mile line and returning slowly to their castle.

The servants and royals still left in the room can have no idea that the others live, and she permits herself a private smile. _Let them anguish._

" _Those who served the prince,_ " she commands in a ringing tone, " _shall remain his servants forever, in forms befitting their station._ "

 _Dent's_ man can only gaze in wonder and horror as he transforms into a candelabra; at his side, _Griffe's_ woman stiffens into a clock. A grand piano replaces its maestro, and a wardrobe appears at its owner's station near the doors. A dog, standing near the prince's chair, becomes a footstool. From the doorway, the queen becomes a teapot.

Frozen in time, none of them react to her final proclamation. " _For the prince_ ," she determines, and she steps right up to him, gazing at him with pitiless eyes, " _you shall assume the form most befitting you._ "

She lets him go and does not enjoy the way he drops to the floor, roaring with pain and rage as hands become paws, fingernails claws, teeth sprouting fangs. Over the cacophony, she thunders, " _You have reigned free over your castle without consequence for years. May you rule it -- and it alone -- forever. Neither you nor anyone left in your castle will leave the grounds. And you will remain a Beast--_ " he arches, a terrible, wolf-life arch to his heels, his back a bear's, his head more bison-like " _\--_ _so long as there are petals upon this rose._ "

Lifting the rose from the floor, she waits until The Beast collapses onto his side, panting heavily. " _I am not without a heart,_ " she says, " _but the cure requires that you have one. For if you are to become human again, you must love and be loved, sincerely and unconditionally, by another, who has not known you before the curse, and who will stay by your side after. Do this, and you will save your entire kingdom._ "

The Beast rises slowly, staring at her in furious disbelief. He exhales deeply, claws flexing, and she steps fearlessly up to him, even though he looms nearly twice her height. " _If I refuse?_ " he snaps. He takes a single step towards her, but cannot maintain it. The witch enjoys the way he grimaces as he falls over, clutching his side.

Leaning over him, she intones, " _If you have not succeeded by the time the last petal falls, then your servants will succumb, and you shall remain a Beast, in perpetuity, sole proprietor of this frozen kingdom._ " She takes the paw he extends towards her and sets the rose in it. " _Long live the king_ ," she says, twirling once and vanishing.

* * *

_Present day._

Well-rested, Hunter turns his dark brown warhorse in a slow circle. "I will bring her back to you," he promises Dick. "Lady in tow."

The man salutes them in the field. "I trust you, Captain. May you have swift passage."

"We certainly shall," Ed permits, seated upon his own dappled mare. "Isn't that right?"

Al nods, commanding his tan stallion a step forward. "Before dusk," he agrees. "What a beautiful ceremony that will make."

Hunter smiles at the thought. "Come, boys." Patting his shotgun, he adds ominously, "May we encounter beasts for the slaughter, and a bride for my wedding."

From down the road, a boy comes shouting, "Zolomon! Joseph returns!"

Frowning, Hunter asks, "Does he bring his daughter?"

Shaking his head, the boy adds breathlessly, "No, but he brings your servant."

Darkly, Hunter says, "Does he?" Kicking his horse into motion, he wheels her back into the town, Al and Ed at his heels.

* * *

"Well." Hartley grimaces at the familiar voice, dismounting his exhausted pony and turning to face his former superior. Joe finishes tying Grey to a post outside his home, stepping forward to regard the three men on horses as Wally frowns and does the same.

"What have we here?" Astride an impressive new steed, Hunter cuts an intimidating figure in the mid-morning light. "A traitor," he seethes, "who left me for dead."

"I did no such thing," Hartley begins heatedly, but the man to Hunter's left scoffs, and the man to his right looks no more convinced.

"Zolomon," Joe bites out, "why are you here?"

"I came to fetch your lovely daughter," Hunter says, dismounting his horse and staring Joe down. "Now I see I have a more custodial duty to attend. Sheriff! Arrest this man."

Wally interjects, stepping in front of Hartley and saying heatedly, "What crime has he committed?"

"He has deserted his superior, in a crisis, no less," Hunter informs. "I should hang you for your actions, but outside the boundaries of war such a gesture is sadly perceived an overreaction."

"Your every action is an overreaction," Joe retorts. "You are a liar and a brute."

"The Good Captain is one of the finest men I know," the man to Hunter's right retorts. Seated on a dappled horse, his expression promises war. "You would do well to hold your tongue, old man."

"The woods may have addled your brains," adds the man to his left, "but they do not excuse your behavior."

"Step away from the boy and we can settle this like men," Hunter says, glaring at Wally.

In response, Joe steps up alongside the boy.

Hartley can see the impulse to reach for his gun cross Hunter's mind, but the thought does not cross his hand as he steels himself against it. To his companions, he says quite genially, "Old Joseph here must be forgiven. He has been in the woods far too long."

"Take them all into custody," the man on Hunter's right suggests to the sheriff standing by. "Immediately."

"Now, now," Hunter pretends to reason, waving a hand magnanimously, "the bastard did nothing wrong."

Hartley's face flushes, but it's Wally who makes the mistake of snapping heatedly, "How dare you--"

"Ah!" Hunter's grin could not be more pleased. Hartley feels sick. "I see how it is. The company of a bastard and a mad man. I see you are quite at home, deserter."

The sheriff steps forward and rebuffs Joe's attempts to intercede with a sharp, "Interfere, and I will arrest you as well for unseemly behavior."

"This is absurd," Wally says. "He did nothing wrong! It's Zolomon you should be locking up!"

Hunter holds a hand to his heart. "My dear boy, what for? Have I not loaned you one of my own horses?" He nods at the pony, who whickers and ambles over, seeking shelter from the fury of emotions passing between the men. "I have been only gracious and forgiving in this entire affair."

"You have most certainly _not_ ," Joe says.

Hunter steps right up to him. "No?"

Joe spits on his face.

Smiling, Hunter reaches up to wipe it off with a kerchief before looking over his shoulder. "Gentlemen," he asks, "have I not been unduly magnanimous?"

"Indeed you have," right-hand assures.

"Have I not attempted everything to the contrary?"

The left-hand nods gravely, saying nothing.

"Then you force me to act. Sheriff." Nodding at them, Hunter steps back and orders, "Take them all. Until I return with my wife to tell the full story, I cannot have them interfering."

Hartley closes his eyes, aware that whatever full story Hunter intends to tell, it will not end well for him.

Joe resists arrest and both of Hunter's companions are required to subdue him. In due time, Hartley, Joe, and Wally are all cast into the back of a closed wagon. The moment it closes, Hartley sinks down a wall, burying his hands in his hair. "What are we going to do?"

Indisputably, Wally says, "Escape."

Hunter's band disappears, hoofbeats vanishing as the wagon rolls away.

* * *

Stationed just out of sight outside the castle gates, _Griffe_ and _Dent_ lie in the snow facing each other.

" _Not a move until they are at the gate_ ," _Griffe_ commands in a barely audible rumble.

 _Dent_ bows its head noiselessly in response, resting chin on paws.

It is _Dent's_ mission to guard the castle, and _Griffe's_ to protect its siblings.

It was _Rouge's_ to kill The Beast.

Without _Rouge_ , it is both of theirs.

" _Not a move_ ," _Griffe_ whispers, and the castle doors open.

* * *

Inside the castle, standing on the steps of the first floor, the clock and candelabra regard each other.

"Days at best," Cisco frets, "hours at worst. How can he let her go?"

Caitlin keeps her silence for a long moment. "You and Cindy did not find each other until last year. Ronnie and I have known each other for nearly nine."

"Your point, my timely friend?"

"My point," Caitlin says, waddling across the floor, "is that it took Ronnie four years to propose. I know you and Cindy will wed the moment you are unencumbered, but it was not a straightforward manner for us. We fought. We disagreed. At times we nearly left each other for good. But we always came back."

"Because he is Ronnie, and you are Caitlin," Cisco agrees, waving a metal arm.

Caitlin nods and explains, "He's Barry."

Cisco cottons on, taking a seat. "And she's Iris."

"He wants the curse to end, too," Caitlin says, waddling over to him, keeping a careful distance between his single lit flame and herself. "He torments himself wondering how much time he has left. But he can no sooner predict the hour the last petal will fall than he can choose when -- or even _if --_ Iris will fall in love with him. We can only trust that it will happen, Cisco."

Cisco presses his arm to his forehead. "Can't I write him a declaration of love and hope she thinks he authored it?"

"You have no hands," Caitlin reminds, amused.

Waving his candelabra arms, Cisco says, "Then I shall whisper it into his ear, pretending not to be present as he tells her."

"Wonderful," Caitlin says dryly. "She'll never--"

The door across from them opens, and the accessories hop away as Barry and Iris proceed.

* * *

They sit on the castle steps for a time.

Iris rests beside him, head against his side, while Barry keeps to himself, arms wrapped around his prodigious knees. The cold is serrating, deep and unforgiving, but Iris' cloak is soft as wolf-skin and thick, too. The elements cannot touch her. Though the wind ruffles his fur, it scarcely seems to attract The Beast's attention, either.

Waiting with him for some signal to proceed, she realizes slowly that she's waiting for him to give her leave. _Go_ , she wants him to say. _Go home to your father, your town, your life._

But he holds his silence, and she holds hers, and in the snow it all seems to rest, layer upon layer of confessions and arguments and admissions. Slowly, carefully, she reaches out and rests a hand on the back of his paw. "I'm sorry," she says.

He huffs. His voice is defeated. " _What for?_ "

Stroking the fur, she explains, "Doubting you."

Now he looks at her. His eyes are blue-green and softer than the fangs protruding from his jaw, but not divorced from them entirely. _This is who I am_ , his curved horns and broad paws say. _What say you?_

"The Beast you were that day is not the man you are today," she finishes. He relaxes, and she shuffles closer to him. "I'm sorry."

" _I judged so many people based on appearances,_ " he says ruefully. " _It is only fair._ " Looking at her, he adds, " _If I may ... what triggered so violent a reaction?_ "

She strokes the fur on his paw to distract herself, going against the grain to see what he does. Twitch it out of reach, but he lets her have it again when she follows it. "Have you ever done something extraordinary," she begins, "and only realized, halfway through, that you were really, truly present?"

Shaking his head slowly, he admits, " _I don't know what you mean._ "

She struggles to encapsulate the feeling, sitting up when inspiration strikes. " _Houblon_."

He frowns, curious and pensive. " _What of him?_ "

"When you rescued him," she explains, "was there not a moment, halfway down the well, when you doubted your resolve? Or even at the bottom, when you felt you had made a mistake and might not be able to undo it?"

He reaches up with his free paw to scratch self-consciously at his right horn. " _I did think I was going to die at least once on the way down,_ " he says. " _And the water was freezing_." Lowering his paw, he looks at her and frowns. " _You thought I was going to kill you?_ "

Shaking her head, she leans against him. "No. But my father raised me to be more cautious than I am. Substantially more cautious," she adds with a little smile. He smiles, too. It makes her feel safe to say, "I've followed you, trusted you -- spent time with you, with scarcely a pause to think what I was doing. And then -- we stopped."

" _And you took a good look at me._ "

She nods. "Do you remember what I said the first night?"

" _You felt this was a dream._ "

"Part of me wants it to be," she admits. "It would be so much simpler. I wouldn't have to make any choices. I would just follow you, and seek adventures, and cause trouble, and then wake in the morning to my own provincial little world."

He lets a little of his weight press back against her. " _Sorry to disappoint_."

"Don't be. I don't want it to be a dream."

He slides his arm slowly around her. It is very warm and very safe. " _Why not?_ "

Shaking her head, she says, "I do not know. But I do know that I must make choices. If I leave, then you will be here -- forever."

He exhales. " _Yes_." Rubbing his forehead, he adds, " _I don't want you to stay because you fear I will be lonely._ " With an audible smile, he points out, " _I do have friends._ "

"A clock, and a candelabra," Iris muses.

" _And a feather-duster, a wardrobe, a piano, and a lovely little footstool._ "

She laughs. "Maybe I will take the footstool with me," she teases.

" _If you could, he would certainly follow._ "

She loves the way it warms her to think of keeping _Houblon_ in her life, but without Barry, and Cisco, and Caitlin, and all the rest, it wouldn't be complete. "I don't want just _Houblon_ ," she says at last.

He is quiet for a time, breathing deep and even. At last, he says, " _When my father died, I didn't want to go on. It didn't feel right that my life could continue without him in it. I missed him, so terribly that I became terrible, and four years later I succumbed to this spell."_ Brushing his paw against his elbow, he says, " _I deserved it. I was cruel, and selfish, and absorbed in my own misery. I was terrible to the people who were kindest to me. I was not a good person._

" _Then,_ " he says, carefully choosing his words, " _I met this lovely girl from this little village down the way. And even though I looked like a monster, she stayed. She showed me that I was capable of being something more, something better. And even though she left one day, she helped show me that I had a life after my father._

" _My father wasn't in my life half as long as I wanted him to be,_ " Barry explains, " _but he left an impact on me that will stay with me for the rest of mine. Even when you leave, Iris -- you will have done that for me. And unlike his death, your departure will have left me a better person, a kinder person._ "

She turns her head against his side so he cannot see the tears in her eyes. He draws her against him, a one-armed hug, and does not press her to reply. Just sitting with him, she is struck by how easily, how wonderfully she could succumb to this fate, sitting here on the steps with him forever. They could eat meals on the floors and play with the footstool in the snowy garden, evading wolves and entertaining silverware. They could laugh and talk and keep each other company on the darkest nights. They could read together and fall asleep in the same room.

They could live a happy life together.

Slowly, she stands. He lets her go, and he seems resigned as he mirrors the gesture. He expects her to walk to the gates, she knows. His promise to take her to the edge of the woods lingers between them, but she lets it go, and steps up to the door instead. Holding it open, she waits for him to step through it before following, shutting it behind herself. Turning to look at him, she says, "I can't pretend to, nor will I ever, know everything about you, but I want to know more."

He scuffs a paw very lightly against the floor, nervous and hiding it poorly. His smile is sincere, even if it is directed at his own feet. " _Are you sure?_ "

She steps up to him, taking both his paws in her hands and says, "Yes." Teasingly, she sways his arms, and he lets her, mimicking a little dance. "Who would I be if I walked away now but more curious and less satisfied?" _I want to see who we could be_ , she does not say aloud, for even in the easy silence it feels too heavy, too dangerous. "I wish to stay. If you will let me." Letting go of his hands, she looks up at him.

He smiles, holding out an arm for her. " _Ma chérie,_ " he says, " _you may stay as long as you like._ "

Together, they venture deeper into the castle, and there is something like friendship between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cast:  
> JESSE QUICK = DAUGHTER OF BAR-OWNER  
> HARRISON QUICK = BAR-OWNER  
> HARRISON WELLS = DOCTOR, HARTLEY'S FORMER EMPLOYER  
> EDWARD SLICK = HUNTER'S RIGHT-HAND. ("SAND DEMON," ZOOM'S LACKEY.)  
> AL ROTHSTEIN = HUNTER'S SECOND RIGHT-HAND. ("ATOM SMASHER," ZOOM'S LACKEY.)  
> LINDA PARK = THE WITCH. (AGATHE)
> 
> French:  
>  _Courir_ = Run.  
>  _Rouge_ = Red.  
>  _Dent_ = Tooth.  
>  _Griffe_ = Claw.  
>  _Ma chérie_ = My dear.


	13. Chapter 13

A parade of furniture follows _Belle_ and The Beast around the castle.

* * *

Up the tallest turret Barry and Iris climb, trailed by a wagging footstool.

Whining with exertion, _Houblon_ abandons them around the two hundredth step, opting to barrel back down with a joyful series of barks. Crunched in the stairwell, Barry rests his elbows on his knees and calls, "Are you all right?"

"I can see why no one conquers castles," Iris admits breathlessly, still out of sight. "You do this regularly?"

Barry shrugs. "Regularly enough." Smiling, he asks, "Would you rather to turn around?"

"How much farther is it?"

Barry nods side-to-side. "Sixty steps, give or take?"

She rounds the bend below him. "Only sixty?"

He hums noncommittally. "Give or take."

Iris smiles, leaning against the wall near him. "Why did I let you talk me into this?"

"Because you crave adventure," he says, shuffling aside and letting her pass him. Pushing himself to his own feet, he follows. The change is nice: letting her lead forces him to slow down, mitigating the ache in his left leg. Bracingly, he tells her, "The view is wonderful."

"But is it to die for?" Iris asks.

Barry huffs, amused. "You won't die." He _oomphs_ when he takes another step and bumps into her, nearly knocking her over. Far from upset, she leans against him, arms hooked around his neck. He holds himself stock-still. "Are you -- all right?" he asks haltingly, resting a paw against her back. She's a little cool to the touch, despite the exertion, and it occurs to him that the towers are the least well-insulated parts of the castle. "Sorry, I should have anticipated how cold it would be," he says, rubbing her back. He's careful to keep his claws from her skin.

Standing two steps above him, she's nearly eye-level. "It's fine," she assures him, holding on. "You're quite warm."

He's very happy she can't see him blush. "Happy to help," he murmurs, flattening his paw against her shoulders. Barely audible, he mumbles, "I could carry you."

In response, she tightens her grip. He waits, but she makes no move to pull away. Carefully, he shifts his grip until he has both arms underneath her, back and knees, and lifts. She's lighter than he expects -- or maybe he's stronger than he thought -- for he barely notices her weight once she is settled against his chest. One arm draped over his left shoulder, she rests her palm flat against his opposite shoulder, avoiding the ruffled fur of healing wounds on either side. "Comfortable?" he asks.

"Are you?" she replies, and to hear her speak against him is somehow far more intimate than merely holding her. He nearly sets her down, lying that he's not, but then he takes a step, finds his footing, and nods. "Then yes," she allows. "I am."

His shoulders relax. He marches on.

The last forty steps or so melt away underneath him. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't need to. The message is clear: _I trust you_.

He wishes the tower were twice as high, for it ends all too soon. The top comes into view and he sets her down carefully. He can still feel her warmth against him, tangible magic. Her soft, wondering exhale makes his heart skip a beat. "It's beautiful," she murmurs, walking farther into the room. She tilts her head back to regard the high ceiling, the open windows. Barry climbs the last steps and joins her, inviting her with a sweep of his arm to the balcony.

Stepping under the stony arch, Iris stays silent. Drawing up to the edge, she grasps the stone and look downs at the snowy grounds below. He falls into step beside her, looking first at her, and then at his frozen kingdom, a familiar hurting ache tightening his chest. He once criticized a witch for the shame he wears now.

_Hail, the ruler of one. The most destitute of royals._

"Prince of one," he murmurs, pressing his paws against the stone.

Iris leans against his side. "I like the prince of one."

Barry smiles. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that he's still a Beast -- and so the curse remains unbroken. "You're a strange one," he muses.

"So I've been told."

 _The curse will break_ , he thinks, taking in the view alongside her. _It has to._

* * *

They dine with Cisco and Dante.

The brothers argue spiritedly over music selection. "What's wrong with the greats?" Dante asks, playing notes here and there, clearly exasperated. "Your inventive spirit tires the weary pianist!"

"Do you mean to say there is a _song_ in this _world_ the Great Dante Ramon cannot play?" Cisco asks loftily, sitting on a rafter while the piano huffs and sulks in a corner.

"I can play every _song_. What you call _music_ is merely the rattling of pots and pans."

"Thank you! They've been working very hard on their numbers."

A pot crashes to the floor in the middle of the room. A pair of pans hurry over to right it. "Professionals," Cisco insists. "The finest performers in France!"

Sitting by the piano, The Beast chimes in, " _Have you ever considered working together?_ "

Cisco laughs so hard he falls off the rafter. When Barry scrambles to catch him, the pans fumble their delicate hold on the pot, losing their balance and crashing in a pile.

Iris smiles. "I don't know, I like a good improvisation." Surrendering her perch along the wall, she rights the pot and pans. The pans bow; the pot shuffles forward and presses against her shin in an imitation of a hug.

"Now that the pans have had their piece," Dante says, clearing his throat. "Let us have some _real_ music."

Launching into a [spirited song](https://youtu.be/tvm2ZsRv3C8?t=10s), he plays a tune that Iris suspects would be impossible for the casual pianist, effortless for a virtuoso at the peak of his craft. "You offend my pots and pans, and then you play them!" Cisco chimes in, hopping over to the piano, voice nearly drowned out by the music.

Barry rubs a paw over his eyes and Iris takes a seat on the floor across from him, watching the lit candelabra attempt to hug the piano dancing out of its reach.

She can't stop smiling.

* * *

They part ways for a time, Cisco promising to attend to Iris' every need as Barry trusts his word and makes himself scarce.

Sitting in the snow outside the castle, Barry buries his paws in the fur near his temples and asks the teapot, "What am I doing wrong?"

His mother frowns. "I'm afraid I'm not following, dear."

Glancing over his shoulder, Barry crowds closer and explains, "Iris." When his mother looks at him uncomprehendingly, he elaborates, "The girl."

"That I follow. What of her?"

Sighing, Barry says, "She's not ..." Eloquently, he rubs a horn. "I'm still a Beast."

"So you are."

"The curse can only be broken if she ..." Aggravated, he presses a paw to his mouth. "I don't understand."

"Have you ever been in love?"

Barry lowers his paw. "Not if I could avoid it."

"Love takes time," his mother says. "You like her, do you not?"

Flustered, Barry ducks his head. "I enjoy her company," he grunts.

"Well. That's a start. Sweetheart, your father and I knew each other for weeks before we professed our love for each other, and ours was an arranged marriage."

"I wish you had arranged mine," Barry says, gaze on the snow.

"No." Hopping forward, putting herself in his sightline, his mother says, "You've always had a softer heart than you accredited yourself. Such things are dutiful, and just, and can be wonderful, but ... to try and fail, Barry, that is noble."

"I cannot fail." Lifting her in his paws, he holds her up and says, "Too much depends on this."

"Act as though you cannot fail," his mother counsels. "That is all you can do, Barry."

"There must be something more. Some _way--_ "

"Some phrase to turn her heart and make her fall in love with you?" She waits until he meets her eyes before saying, "There's not."

With a frustrated growl, he explains, "We have five petals. Time is one thing I do not have." He sets the teapot down carefully. "All of this could be for naught if she falls in love with me the day _after_ the last petal falls." Growling, he presses his paws to his eyes and says, "I can't do this."

"Sure you can." Bumping his knee, his mother insists, "You're a prince. There is nothing you cannot do."

"Charm women," he grunts. "Dance."

"You've attended dozens of balls."

"Attended. Scarcely participated in."

"It's not that difficult."

"Charming women?"

"Dancing."

He huffs. "I'd rather charm women."

"You want my advice, do you not?"

"I have to dance?"

"It's something you haven't tried. Could it hurt?"

"My ego may never recover."

"Egos are overrated. Take a risk. At worst, she'll leave, and you'll be no worse off than if you hadn't tried at all. You have everything to gain, Barry."

He hugs his knees to his chest, feeling shy. "You think it could work?"

"It did for me." He raises an eyebrow at her, and she continues. "Your father could be a bit of a brute. For him, marriage was a chore. He didn't want much to do with me. His ideal marriage was a contract, signed by two people, who were mutually excluded from each other's company as often as possible without upsetting the appearance of being engaged in a happy partnership. I think I upset his plans a little." Smiling to herself, she tilts to one side. "Have I not told you this story?"

He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. "I may not have listened attentively, in my ... more flippant years."

"Well." Settling in the snow, his mother begins.

* * *

_Everyone knew your father. He was reputable; he liked to immerse himself in crowds, shaking hands with everyone. What few people noticed was how fleeting his interactions were. He passed by with scarcely more than a polite word here or there. He was like a fox, granting just the right amount of attention to fool everyone into thinking they had separated him from all other distractions while they were engaged with him. He made them feel heard, but he did not stay long enough to witness the deterioration of his word. It was far simpler to feign interest than execute it._

_The first night we met, I choose a simple grey dress. Amid the crowd, I stood out, the sole soft color. The flash and flare was attractive, and it kept the eye engaged, but I wished to be a break from the distractions._

_When you father first saw me, I could see he was torn._

_There was the anticipated surprise, and then the scarcely hidden disappointment (for he was to marry_ this _woman?), and finally the acceptance of his fate. He strode across the floor, bowed, and took my hand. He introduced himself as a Prince, and I introduced myself as a Lady, and neither of us offered up our names. We already knew who we were involved with. It wasn't necessary to explain anything._

_The interim was comfortable enough. The wedding preparations were already underway. I couldn't believe that I had found myself in such a position, engaged to a handsome young prince._

_Your father was quiet, a listening presence. I was impressed with how he let me speak with the guests, even when I knew the subject matter couldn't possibly interest him. He was patient. Patience was a good quality in a man. Even if his warmth seemed surficial, and his smiles forced, he was good at pretending._

_I told myself that I could be happy with a pretend romance. It was far superior to an antagonistic one, and it would keep our parents happy. That was all I could ask for in life: a break-even. Not better, nor worse, than what came before. At eighteen, it seemed like just enough, even if it left me wanting more._

_Our wedding ceremony was brief, the reception lavish. It was expected -- it was the wining and dining that mattered -- but the brevity left me tired before the night was half over. This was to be my life: a prince's standoffish affection for ceremonies, an absent husband for all the rest. He was nothing if not polite, and I resolved to be the same, for, I knew, it was scarcely an arrangement_ he _could have chosen, and it was only fair to honor his cordiality._

_Eventually, as I entertained the notion of abandoning decorum and leaving, he asked me to dance._

_I was confused -- we had already danced, as was proper, I with his father, he with my mother, and finally each other --but obliged. Surrounded by happy, oblivious guests, we took up refuge from their conversations on the ballroom floor. It was then, finally, that he spoke to me -- actually spoke._

_"_ _My name is Henry Thomas Allen," he said. "I love to meet beautiful people on beautiful nights like this. I expected my wife to be the most beautiful of them all." I waited for the inevitable reprise: You weren't it. "My expectations were too small." He carried on, for half the night, it seemed, and I listened as the second most powerful man in France gave me his full attention._

_It was the beginning of a beautiful, lifelong friendship._

* * *

Sitting on a windowsill next to a candelabra, Iris muses, "My father must be worried sick."

"Come, come! Fathers worry when their daughters are out of sight for five minutes. It is healthy for them to wonder!" Cisco encourages. "Wonder keeps us alive!"

"I thought that was caution," Iris replies, tilting her head to watch The Beast and the teapot below. "What do you suppose they're talking about?"

"Tea, most likely."

"I'm serious."

"Then tea, certainly."

"Cisco."

Sighing, Cisco waves an arm. "What else do enterprising young men speak of with their mothers? How to charm a lady." Realizing what he has said, he winces, hastening to add, "I mean, that is what _I_ would talk of with my mother, if she were here. Princes have more in-te-resting conversations, surely -- not to say ladies are not in-te-resting! On the contrary!"

Iris draws her knee up and rests her chin on it, watching them. Barry and Nora are tucked close to the wall, almost out of sight, but not far enough that she can't see them. "Why would he want to charm a lady?" she asks. "He seems happy on his own."

"What is that book of yours? _Every man in possession of a fortune must be in want of a wife?_ "

"More or less." Smiling a little, she says, "He can be quite charming."

She can hear the restraint in Cisco's voice as he comments, "Can he? I hadn't noticed!"

Iris turns to him. "He's a prince," she says slowly, because he has not grasped this reality firmly enough -- perhaps servitude does that, being constantly immersed in a crowd of people at different stations. "And I'm no Lady."

"Every woman is a lady," Cisco replies with a scoff. "Even the spoons know that!"

"Cisco."

The candelabra presses an arm to his forehead for a moment. In a lower, more serious voice, he says, "Yes. You are not technically a 'Lady.'" He uses both hands to mime quotation marks; without fingers, it is simply waving his hands twice up and down. "It does not matter!" he insists. "You are magnificent!"

"My point still stands."

"Which point is that?"

"He's not exactly _in want of_ a wife."

"He does not know what he wants," Cisco deflects. "That is what I am here for! To tell him what he wants, so he can be happy."

Iris' lips twitch in a smile. "Seems like a tall order, to look after a prince."

"It has its perks," Cisco says, "and drawbacks."

"How often do you see your family?" she asks.

"I've been with the Allens for fifteen years. I've seen more of his parents than mine," he admits. "They're like fam-i-ly!"

"Fifteen years," Iris repeats softly. "That's a long time."

"Yes. I started when I was just eight-years-old. My brother was twelve, and I wished to be nearer to him. King Henry, God rest him, let me stay with him and his family. Dante had more success bonding with the prince, who was his age, but the family was always kind to me."

"That seems almost lonely."

"At times it was," Cisco concedes. "Dante was not always the warmest fellow, and the prince was often even more aloof." With a rueful smile, he assures, "Do not worry. We've grown much closer over the years."

Sitting cross-legged, Iris prompts, "Why did Dante come to work for this family?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle, that is quite a story!"

Iris looks around. After a pointed pause, she says, "I have time."

Cisco waits for her to rescind her invitation, but she just lifts her eyebrows expectantly. "Very well," he says at last, dimming his candles. "Dante always wanted to be... larger than life."

* * *

_Some people are born with greatness; Dante Ramon was born with great expectations._

_Our father was the man he aspired to be. He was a Ren-ai-ssance man. If you needed something done, you wanted Mateo Andrés Diego Ramon for the job. He could re-wheel a cart, build a house, cure a hangover, tame the unruliest animal. He was well-read and loved to quote the Greeks. One of his fa-vo-rite expressions was '_ Anánkāi d'oudè theoì mákhontai. _' 'Not even the gods fight necessity.' He was a violinist, a craftsman, a cook. He was impressive, a true polymath!_

_But when I turned seven, things changed. My father's horse fell upon him and he became paralyzed from the waist down. No more could he engage in his beloved crafts, entertain his friends or win over strangers with his prodigious skills. His sons became his greatest legacy. He taught us everything he knew. It gave him purpose. It wasn't enough, but it was something._

_Being four years older, Dante felt it his chief duty to not only succeed -- magnificently, as our father had -- but also to take care of me. He wanted to do it all -- twice as much, in half as much time. He wanted to be the man people looked up to, the man my father would be proud of._

_It was difficult. Dante was never very good at backbreaking labor, and so he struggled to find work, failing to fill the robust shoes of my father. He compensated with a more refined route, taking up the piano and becoming superb at it. He spent every night at the nearest tavern, working the keys, learning the songs of the greats from other pianists who stopped by._

_His lifestyle was painstaking. He spent most of his days at an ironwork shop. His wages were pitiful, but they kept our family alive. He was frayed and temperamental, working far harder than he should have for much less than he needed. Still, he refused to abandon the piano, and he memorized what our father taught us. He wanted to be a great man. He didn't want to be a peasant who lived and died under a yoke. Dante longed to be something more._

_When a passing royal requested a servant for the week, Dante raced across town to volunteer. A seven-day assignment became a grueling nine-week-long apprenticeship. He barely slept, ate a meal a day, and traveled the country alongside one of those pomp-and-circumstantials that cared for him as much as the dogs the man shot if they failed to work. At the time, Dante was eleven, just skilled enough to carry out basic orders and just young enough to take a sound beating without mutinying. His greatest talent by far was the possession of strong legs and opposable thumbs. In the world of servitude, he was just above a dog._

_Still, he did enough. During a visit, the monsieur dumped him with a letter at the Allen family's castle. 'He will work like a dog, for less pay.' Dante's illiterate -- he hadn't had time to learn more than a few passing phrases -- but even the brusque nature of the letter was a testament to some work. He hoped it was positive. In a way, he was right._

_King Henry was impressed with the unpresumptuous young man who spent the entire night mucking out the stables before falling asleep in one of the stalls. After reading the one-line letter, King Henry brought him into the fold. For three days a week, Dante was part of the King's family. It was a trial run of sorts._

_The King paid him ten times as much as his previous employer. He also insisted that Dante eat at least one meal with the family for the first month, until Dante himself refused because he found that the servants had more fun in the kitchens. He sensed the prince often wished to join them: after experiencing the more relaxed servants' dining experience, Dante felt the formal affair almost intolerably stuffy._

_For a starving twelve-year-old, though, the arrangement was grand, irresistible. He came home with amazing stories, and quickly it became clear that the morose, dire circumstances at home could be greatly mitigated if he accepted more regular employment with the King. All he had to do was sign over his soul: swear fealty, and agree to an indefinite commitment to his King and the King's family._

_I imagine you are shocked that any man would agree to such enslavement -- for it is scarcely less, even if the pay is generous -- but you must understand how desperate we were. Dante nearly killed himself at the employ of the first royal for the opportunity to potentially get closer to the king. That he succeeded is miraculous. However generous a ruler he is, the King hires experienced hands, not street rats. And passing royals do not care for filth, either. It was my father's words that saved my brother's life: 'not even the gods fight necessity.' Passing royals need hands. Dante has two, and he used them well._

_Perhaps if he had been sixteen and well-fed he would have turned down the King's offer. Maybe if he was thirty with his own children he would have preferred to spend his days as a free man, rising and setting to his own clock. But we do not live in that world, Mademoiselle: for every day, every man must arise and go to work and perform his own kind of labor, and then he returns to his family to apologize for the absence and hope the pay compensates for it. We work until we die and hope the work we do matters in some way._

_My father's work mattered. And I know Dante wanted his work to matter, too._

_Under the King, he prospered. Dante's visits became vanishingly rare. He appeared once a month to deposit all his earnings with my parents, and then he left the same night. His love for my parents was sincere, but his love for the King's family had to be sincerer. There were plenty of passing royals with their own servants, and a single unexplained absence could be enough to let a replacement unseat him. It is a surprisingly cutthroat industry. Perhaps the knowledge that we eat and sleep and live in warm, beautiful, lively castles is enough to keep us on our knees, no matter how steep the cost._

_Eventually, a well-entrusted letter home replaced foot service, and we stopped seeing Dante altogether. It was around this time that, though I was only eight, I determined that my best life, my best possible life, would be at the King's side, like Dante. My parents were doing well enough that I didn't worry my absence and the absence of my own pittances of wages would destroy them. On the contrary: with two working sons, they would double their income. It was a win-win for everyone._

_And I missed my brother. I missed my brother's laughter, his wit, his charm. I missed another true child in the town, and seeing him in good health encouraged me. Whatever he was doing -- and however little he saw of our parents -- he was clearly happier than he had ever been home. He was alive and well. What more could be asked of a man?_

_It wasn't hard to break free -- my parents were always more impressed with Dante, and when I left they were, perhaps, relieved to grieve in unencumbered peace, without the complexities of a single son remaining behind -- but it was far more difficult than I anticipated to adjust._

_For weeks, I was fine. Eight-year-olds love simple things, and the castle had many extravagant things. Admittedly, it took some serious persuasion -- and several strong promises from Dante that the Ramon blood was invaluable and I would be a magnificent servant one day -- to bend the King's opinion. The King didn't bring in boys; he brought in aspiring young men. I was younger than the youngest page. I was four years younger than the King's own youthful son. No royal would have hired me, but the King trusted my brother enough to permit the exception._

_So I joined the royal family. Three weeks passed in a whirlwind, learning names, acquiring a feel for the castle, picking up the most basic skills wherever I could nose in._

_By the fourth week, a crushing_ mal du pays _set in. I actually hid in a closet. I was terrified to be seen upset, for fear that the King would revoke his generous offer. No longer could I afford to back out, for if I left now, I knew I would leave them with a soured impression of me. I would never get a second chance at this business, and I knew -- however sad I was, however terribly I missed my parents then -- that this was my best chance at a good life._

_That was the day I met Barry._

_I'd seen him before, plenty of times -- he was the King's little shadow, everyone's child, and though he was moody at times, he was generally very royal and well-liked -- but I'd never so much as exchanged first names with him. I knew his name; he barely knew I existed. I had chosen a good hiding place, but I hadn't anticipated that the Prince sometimes hid away, too. He found me, entirely by accident, in something of a fuss himself._

_I was so startled I forgot to call him a Prince -- it was just "Barry," and it always has been -- but he didn't mind. He was upset because his mother was leaving the next morning for a few weeks and the King was something of an absentminded father, King first, father second. Barry wasn't terribly distressed -- he simply wanted a chance to be alone before facing the morning -- but he was surprised to find me, already deep into my own meltdown. I hastened to make an exit, apologizing profusely, but then another royal 'rounded a corner and he shoved me back inside and wedged himself in, shutting the door behind himself._

_We huddled together for an hour, hounded by a procession of royals. We stayed silently in our hideaway until things settled down. At last, Barry said into the darkness, "Thank you."_

_"_ _For what?" I asked._

_"Not giving me away," he replied._

_I had shrugged, assured him that it was no trouble, why would I? Eventually I would see that most servants were on the King's side first, and the Prince's side second, and it was in fact an unusual occurrence when anyone would support the Prince to the potential disapproval of the King. It wasn't very princely behavior to hide in a closet, and he outgrew it rather quickly, but I noticed his tendency to strike out on his own, unfindable, was common._

_For many years, I came to know the King's son as well as the King, and I came to like him a great deal more. To be sure, Barry is an acquired taste -- he has a tendency to rebuff the more traditional routes of becoming friends, preferring traumatizing experiences to polite handshakes -- but he's a genuine man. He cares when it counts._

_By fourteen, I was as good a servant as any, the Prince's right-hand. Dante had established himself as a master pianist, a virtuoso behind the keys, and no longer had to perform the more menial day-to-day tasks. He was well-liked, and I was well-hidden, shadowing the Prince without overshadowing him. We'd found our places. I met Caitlin and Ronnie together -- they're transplants from another royal's estate -- and became fast friends with most of the other servants here._

_And we have been here ever since._

* * *

Barry pads so quietly down the hallway that the piano does not hear him, but he hears it.

" _Days in the sun, when my life has scarcely been spun, not until my songs are undone, will I ever cease, too._ " Mournfully, Dante plays the keys and asks an invisible audience, " _Will I amble again, through a summer's gorgeous blue rain?_ "

Out of sight, Barry hears an answering refrain from Cisco and Cindy: " _Will you now forever remain, out of reach of my arms?_ "

Walking away from them, unable to bear the fact that he is the reason they are like this, Barry finds a teapot in an empty room down the hall, singing softly to Dante's tune. " _All those days in the sun, what I'd give to relive just one. Undo what's done, and bring back the light."_

Sinking back on his heels, unable to escape the haunting melody, and scarcely wanting to, Barry hears a more distant pair still, Caitlin and Ronnie, voices heartbreaking and sincere: " _Oh, I could sing, of the pain these dark days bring, the spell we're under, still, it's the wonder of us I sing of tonight._ "

In the middle of the hall, The Beast hunches, paws pressed to his head, tears in his eyes. _What have I done to them?_

He isn't expecting _her_ at all, voice soft and clear. " _How in the midst of all this sorrow, can so much faith and love endure?_ " Stepping towards him, Iris sings, " _I was innocent and certain, now I'm wiser but unsure._ " He straightens from his crouch, rendered utterly speechless by her. " _I can't go back into my childhood_ ," she admits. " _One that my father made secure._ " With a deep breath, she finishes, " _I can feel a change in me, I'm stronger now, but still not free._ "

From the halls, the chorus is haunting: " _Days in the sun, will return, we must believe, as lovers do, that days in the sun will come shining through._ "

She closes the distance between them and he wraps her in the gentlest of tight hugs that he can. _Don't leave,_ he pleads with every waking, dying breath. _Please._

Inevitably, when she backs away, he lets her go.

And still he is a Beast.

* * *

Lying flat on his back on the floor of the master suite, Barry explains, "I want her to be happy. Before I want her, I want her to be _happy_."

The feather-duster hovers above him. "Then go get her. Make her happy."

Sighing, Barry says, "It's not that simple."

"Fine. I'll go get her."

"You'll -- _Cindy_ ," he says, scrambling to his feet. "Cindy!" She's already flying out the door as he sprints after her, taking the stairs five at a time and barking, "This is not a joke!"

"No, it's not," Cindy agrees, gliding out of reach as he doubles back. "Go get her. Or I will."

With an exasperated growl, Barry says, "Not _now_."

Cindy takes off.

"Cisco!" Barry shouts, hurrying after her. "Call her off!"

Laughter is his only response, a faint, "I love her!" his sole commission for his trouble.

* * *

"Is it always like this?" Iris asks, amused, curled up on an armchair in the library with the clock on the table next to her.

"I wish I could say no," Caitlin says, "but it's usually worse." A loud crash makes her spin on her feet, an even louder bray of laughter clear in the distance. She rubs a hand down her face. "Are you sure you wish to stay?" she asks Iris. There's a faint hopefulness -- _don't let the boys deter you --_ that Iris doesn't comment on, smiling.

"I want to see how this unfolds," she assures. "How could I leave now?"

Barking joins the fray, a noisy series of crashes making Iris wince. "Perhaps I should go check on them," she says, setting down her book. No sooner does she stand than a feather-duster sweeps into the room, doing a little twirl before gliding to the floor.

"The Beast has something he would like to say," she announces.

Barry appears scarcely a second later, doubling over his knees and panting. " _Hi._ " Straightening, he looks at her, a half-smile curling his lips. _Houblon_ paws at his leg, whining, and he scoops the dog up in one arm. " _You look beautiful._ "

"Thank you," Iris says, curtseying in her little grey dress. "That's not what you came to say."

Smiling to himself, Barry shakes his head, hugging the footstool to his side to keep it from causing any more trouble. " _No_ ," he admits. " _I didn't come to say anything at all._ "

"Barry." Sauntering closer, Iris takes the footstool from him. "Speak your mind."

Reaching back to rub his neck, he murmurs, " _I can't._ " When she frowns, he explains, " _It would ... complicate things._ "

"Are things not complicated?" she challenges, setting _Houblon_ down so she can take his free paw, tugging him forward. He lets her, looking down at her in something approaching awe. She has no response to it, so she steps closer and hugs him instead. It's safer. "You're a Prince, and a Beast, and somehow both and neither of these things."

" _I envy the simplicity of your life,_ " he says.

She can't help a little laugh. "Simplicity," she repeats, stepping back to look up at him. "Having found a Beast in a castle no one remembered existed and fallen in love with his furniture?"

He looks at her, really looks at her, and she wants to know what he has to say, so badly she nearly calls a full stop, refusing to budge until he explains it. Instead, she permits, "What is it about simplicity you crave?"

Ducking his head, he refuses to look at her. " _I don't know_ ," he admits. " _It's different than what I know._ "

"You're very different than what I know," she says. He rubs the back of his neck again. It's sweet, but it also means he's stressed, and as much fun as it is to see him squirm, she wants him to feel at home. It's _his_ castle. She's their guest. Squeezing his free paw, she asks, "If I promise not to laugh, will you tell me what it is that's bothering you?"

He huffs a little, amused and torn. " _You would laugh at a prince? Risky girl._ "

"Everything I have done involves risk," she reminds him. "From the moment I stepped onto the castle grounds, to this very second, I have done nothing _but_ take risks. Perhaps," she suggests, "you might do the same."

He works his jaw, and she almost forgets about their audience until his gaze slides over her shoulder to them. Then, looking back at her, he says, " _Follow me._ "

Letting go of her hand, he steps back, putting his back to her and walking out of the room. None of the furniture -- not even _Houblon --_ follow.

Intrigued, she trails after his disappearing blue cloak.

* * *

In the ballroom, Barry turns to face her, and the hush in the grand room is phenomenal.

Turning in a slow circle, she remarks, "What magnificent balls you must have hosted."

Barry tucks his paws behind his back, at attention. "They were magical," he admits. "You would have loved them."

"So you've said." Stepping back up to him, she smiles even when he tenses. "I'm not going to hurt you," she tells him.

Unlacing his paws from behind his back, Barry lets them settle against his side. "I know," he assures.

She takes his paws in her own hands and he stops breathing. "I don't think you do," she says, swaying his arms lightly, back and forth, back-and-forth. "I trust you. Do you trust me?" She steps back and he follows. Her rhythm is easy; her gestures, light and welcoming.

Simply, he says, "With my life."

She cannot possibly know how much he means it.

But as she draws him out onto the ballroom floor, he finds he means it sincerely, unconditionally.

And it almost doesn't occur to him that he's still a Beast.

* * *

"I've never seen the master dance," Cisco remarks quietly from a balcony, smiling to himself as he watches Iris twirl once under Barry's outstretched arm. They move slowly, almost tentatively, across the floor. It's simple, but sweet. He likes it. "He's quite lovely."

"Hush," Caitlin advises, and so they do.

Far below, oblivious to their observers, Barry and Iris sway together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:  
>  _Mal du pays_ = Homesickness.


	14. Chapter 14

[Suggested monologue audio](https://youtu.be/pRfSd0HQbws).  (Original monologue without fic alterations.)

* * *

Once upon a time in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle.

Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind. But then one winter's night, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered him a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold.

Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince sneered at the gift and turned the old woman away, but she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within. And when he dismissed her again, the old woman's ugliness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress.

The prince tried to apologize, but it was too late, for she had seen that there was no love in his heart, and as punishment, she transformed him into a hideous Beast and placed a powerful spell on the castle and all who lived there.

Confined to his monstrous form, the Beast could no longer leave the castle grounds, with a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world.

The rose she had offered him was truly an enchanted rose, which would bloom until the one who would break the spell arrived. If he could learn to love another, and earn their love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a Beast for all time.

As the months passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope, for who could ever learn to love a Beast?

* * *

Adelais the sheep looks up at Linda expectantly. "That's all I've written so far," the witch says, lowering her book. "What do you think of it?"

 _Wonderful_ , the sheep replies.

Linda smiles, picking up her pen. "You don't think it on the nose?"

 _Wonderful_ , the sheep repeats. Pressing her snout against Linda's hand, she insists, _Again_.

Scratching the ewe's neck, Linda sits on top of the stone fountain, looking around the sleepy village. "They think I'm odd," she admits confidentially, "because I can talk to sheep." Then, amused, she adds, "I do like the girl. She talks to ewe as well."

The sheep nudges her snout against Linda's hand. _Again_.

"I should probably give him the mirror," Linda admits, brushing the sheep's head. "Somewhat mean-spirited to withhold it."

_What is a mirror?_

"It is an object for looking at oneself," Linda explains. "Or anything, really. Mostly oneself."

_I would like to look at myself._

"Would you?" Reaching around her shoulder, she produces a satchel and says, "Since you asked so nicely." Drawing the magic mirror from her bag, she holds it up for the ewe.

The ewe stares at her own reflection for a long moment, blinking and taking a step back. "It's quite all right," Linda assures. "It's just an image. It cannot hurt you."

Pushing her snout against it, Adelais steps back and looks up at her. _It's wonderful._

"You think most things are wonderful," Linda muses. Scratching the sheep's neck again, she says, "It's one of the reasons why I like sheep so much." Looking down at the mirror thoughtfully, she commands, "Show me The Beast."

A familiar blue-coated figure appears in the wispy glass surface. A smile tugs at Linda's lips when she sees him, hand-in-paw with a woman. They dance together, twirling across a ballroom floor. It does not escape Linda that he is still a monster, but he seems happy. That's a start.

She recognizes the woman who has captured his attention and almost pities him. "The one woman who would not marry a prince for its own sake," she murmurs, watching the couple dance. "With only five petals left, too."

_Petals?_

Fishing one-handed in her satchel, Linda produces a brilliant white rose. "Petal," she explains, trailing a finger under one before setting it back in her bag. "The prince has but five more, or he will remain a Beast forever."

_How do you know?_

"Show me the red rose," Linda prompts, and The Beast and his _Belle_ dissolve, revealing a brilliant red rose under a bell jar instead. It looks almost sickly, dark and slouched. Five humble petals cling to its flower, nearly twenty scattered around its base. The dead petals are blackened and curled up, nearly unrecognizable.

Closing her eyes, Linda breathes in and out deeply. When she opens them, another petal breaks free and falls. Adelais bleats once inquisitively. "Four more," she announces, showing the sheep the rose.

 _So few,_ Adelais says. _Is it possible to fall in love in such little time?_

With a smile, Linda turns the mirror back towards herself and commands, "Show me the one who will break the spell."

Iris reappears, this time with an arm around the back of a hunched-over Beast, his expression clearly pained. "It has already happened," she tells Adelais. "She just does not know it yet."

_How much time does she have to break the spell?_

In the silver, The Beast folds to a knee. Linda banishes the image and replaces the mirror in her bag, looking down at the ewe thoughtfully. "One day more," she says at last. "He will be free -- one way or another -- by tomorrow's end."

The sheep bleats again. _Iris?_

Scratching the ewe's back, Linda assures, "She will return to you."

_The prince?_

Picking up her book, Linda says simply, "We shall see."

Relaxing, Adelais lies down beside her as Linda recites softly, " _Once upon a time in a faraway land, a young prince lived in a shining castle..."_

* * *

In royal blues and soft greys, Barry and Iris glide across the floor, making a slow, sweeping arc of the room.

Iris leads; Barry follows. She takes a step here, and he mirrors her there. She tugs on his arms and he goes; he pulls her towards him and she wanders closer. His paws sweep soundlessly across the marble, silent in a way sharp-toed shoes never were; her footfalls are light and balanced, music in the quiet of the massive hall.

He finds navigating around her is easy if he does not move too quickly. His own feet prove more cumbersome to him; he trips over them, unused to their arch and size. He doesn't fall, but he frets over what she thinks of his competency. After the fourth or fifth stumble, he tugs his paws back self-consciously, intending to step away. Iris doesn't let him retreat, tightening her grip on his paws and assuring, "You're doing fine." He relaxes, and lets her keep her hold on him.

Inspired, he lets her reel away and holds his arm up for her. Taking the hint, she twirls underneath his paw. She's effortless, graceful in a way that isn't over-practiced. She knows no spectacular dances, and he knows no way to execute one, but he finds her spontaneity -- and his ability to comply with the simple choreography -- pleasant and reassuring.

Watching her, he has the charming image of a younger Iris dancing with her father at a friend's wedding, twirling under his arm, enjoying the atmosphere, acquiring a feel for the steps that come so naturally to her now.

( _Little does he know how truthful his assessment is. Under a[Turneresque](https://www.bing.com/images/search?q=turner+painting&FORM=HDRSC2) sunset, a twelve-year-old Iris in a beautiful blue dress holds her father's hands and tugs him across the grass at a friend-of-the-family's wedding. She is enthusiastic in the way only children are, eager and free. Her father smiles indulgently, letting her twirl under his arm. When she has dizzied her father thrice over, she slows, and he teaches her a proper waltz. Though young, she is determined, memorizing the steps and impressing the noticeably less coordinated Edward --"oh, please call me Eddie" -- Thawne. Untethered, she strikes off and dances alone, happy and alight with her own golden joy._ )

In contrast to Iris' fluidity, Barry's movements are precise. He watches and learns carefully, mimicking more than striking out. Though he has walked across ballroom floors countless times -- even entertained a few disinterested seconds of dance with passing partners -- he has never let himself enjoy it before. He never wanted to; they were nameless to him. It was a dutiful obligation. Nothing more.

For him, the beauty now is its simplicity. The atmosphere is clear and open: there are no others on the floor to laugh and idle over their own conversations, no others to entertain, no others to appear before. He doesn't have to keep his shoulders perfectly straight, his expression perfectly flat. He can wear a silly but sincere close-mouthed smile. Around them, the silence is soft and melting, like a fireplace crackling far around a corner. He does not tire, and neither does she, and around and around they go.

Holding her at arm's length does fatigue him. Before he caves to his discomfort, Iris reads his mind, taking one of his paws and placing it unshyly at her waist. He holds himself very still, scarcely breathing, barely touching her, simultaneously afraid to overstep and desperate to never let her go. His paw spans the width of her back, cradling her in his arm, and he finds that he loves it. He loves how easily and immediately she trusts him.

Free paw in her hand, Iris looks up at him and smiles. Together they sway, proper and sedate. Waltzing across the floor with her, Barry finds himself profoundly at ease. "You have redefined dancing for me," he admits.

When she lifts her eyebrows in playful challenge, he slowly dips her. Utterly confident, she lets her right arm rest over his left shoulder; her left arm splays out behind her. Were he to drop her, he knows, she couldn't catch herself. Though his heart skips a beat, his arms do not even tremble. She looks at him, and he at her, and then he gently and seamlessly rights her. Again, breathing evenly, they sway, back-and-forth, back-and-forth.

As they dance, a soul-deep restlessness within Barry regresses. His shoulders ease back; the nervous edge of his smile disappears, leaving only warm enjoyment in its place. The dance does not steal away six months of misery, but it releases him from chains he hadn't released were still upon him, shackling him to his fate. Gratitude wells up in his chest and he cannot speak, overcome with affection.

_Love and be loved._

It clicks in his chest, the answer to his angst, the solution his confidants could not get through to him. _Love her,_ he realizes, drawn as close to her as he dares, nearly toe-to-toe with Iris. _Love her. Even if she does not reciprocate. Even if she does not stay._

_Even if the last petal falls tomorrow._

They have tonight. Dancing with her, he feels joyful, sated, and relieved.

_If I die tomorrow, this will have been a marvelous life._

For this night, if nothing else.

For Iris, above all.

* * *

The Beast dances with an almost childlike curiosity.

He mirrors Iris' gestures, following her lead as they sway together. When she twirls under his arm, he stares at her in open awe; when she places his paw at her waist, he looks at her like he can scarcely believe she is real. When he moves, his steps are a little hesitant, a little slow. It is clearly not his scene, and Iris smiles at the thought of the prince being out of his element in a ballroom. "Haven't you ever danced before?" she asks him.

He lets out a little growl that is less frightening than it is embarrassed. " _Is it that obvious?_ "

Iris squeezes his paw. "It's sweet," she assures. She likes that his shoulders relax, his smile warms, at the simple confirmation of the silent truth between them. _This is lovely_.

And so it is.

Were circumstances different, Iris can see a ball around them.

_There would be a quiet hush of conversation from countless guests. She would pay them no mind: they would be nameless and faceless to her, as instrumental as the orchestra in the corner. It would be her father who would catch her eye. Stepping up to them, he would size Barry-as-a-man up. With a shy tip of his head, Barry would greet him and shake his hand. Iris cannot determine Barry's human height, nor any of his human features (but those eyes, those blue-green _eyes_ which are utterly human), but she senses that her father and he would stand as equals. Her father would find him -- satisfactory?_

She cannot know, but she likes to think so, likes to think about the kind convergence of her worlds. She wants it to happen, with surprising force, and cannot look Barry in the eye for a moment, staring at the chest directly in front of her instead. Behind his royal blues, it is almost possible to mistake him as human. When her gaze drifts but a little farther down, though, she sees his lion's tail swish by, and remembers.

But the anguished uncertainty never arises. Looking back up at him, she meets his gaze, Barry-as-the-Beast, and finds only a melting softness there, genuine affection, genuine awe. She smiles back, and finds that fangs, horns, tail and claw cannot erase the man underneath. His quiet enjoyment erases the sharp edges from his expression. He is even handsome, as a lion is majestic, as a spring-groomed forest is magnificent, and as an unrepeatable laugh is beautiful.

He looks at her like she is a miracle, and she wishes she could be one for him.

She aches over the future of his lonely castle, what will happen if he cannot break the spell. Unattended, his castle will stand with him, year after year, for all eternity, until something kills him. So the witch proclaimed; so the future may fulfill.

Unable to resist the stories of her own mind, she inhabits the space as he might.

_As a Beast, she walks across the empty ballroom, its grandiose space reduced to a dark formality without laughter and music and people to fill it. She trails down tall and foreboding hallways, covering ground in slow, steady strides that take her nowhere. She passes empty fireplaces, insulating fur keeping her alive when she refuses to stoke them._

_As time passes, she anguishes. She can't eat, for the mere sight of the kitchen is too much, an echo of a song ringing in her ears years and years later. She can't sleep, either, envisioning happier lives whenever she closes her eyes. But no matter how much she deprives herself, her body soldiers on, long after her mind aches for reprieve._

_Though the immediate consequences of the curse cut deep, it is the sight of frozen furniture that tugs hardest at her heart. At first, she puts them on the windowsill to regard their empty kingdom, but it seems cruel, to show them what they cannot have. So she takes them with her deeper into the castle, a window-less space where they might rest easy, but it makes her heart hurt to keep them locked away. At last, she places them together by the fireplace in the foyer, stoking the fire to warm them. She hugs the footstool and weeps, aching to impart her life to it._

_She is so moved beyond grief she cannot even react when she regards the clock or candelabra. She finds herself speechless before the feather-duster, the teapot. She closes her eyes against the sight of an un-played piano, an unused wardrobe. When she looks at them, at every piece of furniture that once bowed or greeted her, every piece of furniture that was once a person or even simply Earth-animate, she is struck by a wordless sorrow so deep it cannot be voiced._

_As years pass, she falls into despair, and loses all hope -- for who could ever free her from this fate?_

When Iris pulls herself back from the terrible scene, she steps closer to Barry, him and his living warmth, and rests her head against his chest, aching to save him and his family. For they are family, every one of them, from the tiny silver spoons to the towering grand piano, the cheerful candelabra and the companionable clock. He curls his paw against her back, letting her stay close, and she listens to his fast-beating heart, and can't help but think it is racing towards a finish line.

"Tell me," she whispers. He rocks them slowly, staying almost in one place, and keeps his peace for a time. "Tell me how to break the curse."

Exhaling deeply, he begins, " _The Greeks had four words for it--_ "

With a sharp inhale, he falters and falls back a step. In alarm, Iris says, "Beast?" Course-correcting, she asks, "Barry?"

Groaning, he places a hand over his heart, gazing down at the floor. With a roar of pain, he collapses to a knee. His shout is deep, and despairing: " _No!_ "

Iris' heart breaks, placing a hand over his back. He trembles underneath her, roaring again, back arching in agony. "It's all right," she tells him, even though it is a lie, because she needs to say it, even if he cannot hear it. "It's all right. Tell me what hurts. Is it your leg?" He shakes his head fervently, but she can draw no revelations from him, shaking and panting hard, teeth clenched tightly shut.

"It is the rose," a different voice chimes in, soft and sad, as a feather-duster drifts down to her. "Another petal has fallen."

" _Four_ ," he gasps, a paw on the floor for balance. She rubs his shoulder, aching to take away the pain clear in his voice. " _We have -- four left._ "

A clattering precedes Cisco as he hops across the floor, Caitlin trailing after him. "Master!" he calls. " _Mon ami!_ "

" _I'm fine,_ " Barry assures, voice scorched. He exhales and shakes his head, prying himself to his feet. " _I'm fine_ ," he promises. Iris wraps an arm around his back, supporting him, and he lets a little of his weight lean into her. His left leg trembles, bleeding anew. She senses it is not even half the source of the pain in his expression. " _Well. That answers that question,_ " he says without resentment.

"What happened?" Cisco asks, skidding to a halt at his feet.

Barry grimaces, and he looks simultaneously forlorn and sorry as he explains, " _I cannot tell her about the curse. Even the fact that it exists..._ " Gasping, he holds his throat for a moment, and Iris hates that she is the source of such discomfort, even after he lowers his paw, looking shaken.

"Easy, my friend, easy," Cisco encourages. Caitlin waddles up alongside him and he turns with bracing courage to her. "Look! Caitlin is here! All will be well, _mon ami flou!_ "

In contrast to Cisco's nervous buoyancy, Caitlin is unruffled. "You couldn't have known," she says quietly, reassuringly. "We still have four petals left. There's still time."

"She has all the time in the world!" Cisco adds, wrapping an arm around Caitlin and giving her a friendly shake. "She is the greatest timepiece on Earth! Second only in accessories to the greatest feather-duster on Earth!" He flits away to embrace his favorite feather-duster, who silently folds him in her embrace, careful to avoid his flames.

" _I'm all right,_ " Barry tells them, even though the tremble is nearly audible in his voice. Looking at Iris with glassy eyes, he says apologetically, " _I ... I would tell you. I would._ "

"I know," she says, rubbing his back. Her own throat aches. "Perhaps I will guess it?"

His smile is soft and unhopeful. " _Perhaps_ ," he permits. Shifting on his feet, he grimaces. " _I appear to have ... torn open a wound or two_."

"We can fix that," Iris says. She gives him the softest push forward, just to get him moving, and he takes the hint. He takes a single labored step, followed by another, then another, moving slowly across the floor. "That's it. You're doing well."

"Magnificently!" Cisco expounds. "Stupendously! I could not be prouder!"

Drawn by the commotion, _Houblon_ nearly takes out the poor Beast at the door, failing only because he tramples an oblivious Cisco and loses his footing. "Ah-ha, you are a wonderful dog," Cisco laughs, struggling back to his feet. Barry smiles, but it's distracted, and Iris focuses on guiding him to the nearest room with a bed.

He rallies as they walk, taking a seat on the bed near the headboard with his usual ease as he assures again, " _I'm all right._ "

"You're bleeding," Iris replies. _You're dying_ , she does not add, for it is not true, and somehow it hurts more for it. "Here," she adds, fetching a fresh roll of linens from the closet.

Making himself useful, Cisco hops over to the fireplace, struggling to stoke it as Caitlin chimes in suggestions. Iris hears a grunt of _tiny little candle arms_ and smiles even as she unwraps the bandage around Barry's leg. "Ouch," she murmurs eloquently, having nearly forgotten the sheer size of the puncture wounds, each an inch across. Gently, she rests a hand just beside it.

" _Ouch_ ," he agrees without heat, resting a paw over her hand. She rests her free hand over his paw, lifting it gently and pressing it to her cheek.

"I'm sorry you're hurting," she says, ashamed of the tears that slip unexpectedly past her hold. "I want to help you, but I don't know how."

He turns his paw over carefully, brushing his thumb against her cheek. " _You are helping,_ " he assures. " _You have brought light back into my life. To all of our lives._ "

She smiles, and cannot stop the tears. Pressing his paw to her face, she says, "You know what I mean."

" _I do. And I still say you have helped me more than I can say._ "

She breathes in and out slowly, releasing his paw. He sets it down, looking at her, and she looks down at his leg. Taking the linen, she warns, "This might hurt."

" _I have dealt with far worse,_ " Barry assures.

It makes her heart ache, but it also makes her work easy, for he makes no complaint when she wraps his leg a second time. "Good as new," she announces, tossing the old linens into a hamper.

" _Good as new,_ " he agrees, eyes shut.

At the fireplace, Cisco puffs away with a hand bellows, stating in an out-of-breath tone, "Curse these tiny! Stick! Arms!"

Iris offers, "I could," but Cisco is already insisting, "No, no, _ma chère,_ allow me!" Continuing energetically, he adds, "It brings me such joy to test myself against the elements!"

Shaking her head in amusement, Iris turns to Barry. He opens his eyes and smiles at her, simple and sincere, and she can't help but smile back. " _I rescind my previous assessment,_ " he murmurs.

She raises an eyebrow. "You wish to be called The Beast?" she teases.

Barry huffs a laugh. " _No. I like dancing. With you. I have not decided if I enjoy it with other people, but I like dancing with you._ "

Iris feels warm despite her fear, warm despite everything, as she climbs onto the space beside him, leaning against his chest. "I like dancing with you, too," she agrees. "We should do it again sometime."

There's a melting quality to his smile as he drapes an arm around her. " _What of returning home?_ " he asks, eyes shut.

Iris doesn't hesitate. "I'm not leaving." He opens his eyes, tilting his head to look at her. "Not until we fix this. I won't leave you. Or them." With a nod towards the panting candelabra and clock standing nearby, she says simply, "I'm not giving up on this."

He closes his eyes and exhales deeply. " _Cisco. We must rid ourselves of this_ Belle. _She spoils us with her optimism._ "

Iris flicks his paw. "Are you ever serious?"

" _No._ " Yawning, he adds, " _but I am tired._ "

She stays with him, stays until his breathing grows deep and soft, and then she slowly disentangles herself. The clock and candelabra are already gone, and the fire crackles merrily in the corner. Padding quietly across the floor, she slips out the door, and nearly trips over _Houblon_ , wagging back and forth slowly. " _Bonjour, Houblon_ ," she greets, bending to pat the footstool on its back. "Go. Be with your master."

The footstool skitters past her into the room. Letting out a single happy bark, he hops onto The Beast's bed and curls up in the crook of his arm, taking Iris' place. Satisfied, Iris leaves them, making her way downstairs. She sees Cisco and Caitlin farther down, engaged in a spirited argument -- _can we tell her?; can we risk another petal to find out? --_ and sidesteps a crossroads with them, beelining instead down a hall to a familiar room.

Pressing open the door, she enters the magnificent space and smiles despite everything, for it is truly beautiful.

It's a long shot, she knows, and with ten thousand books to search, the odds become longer still, but she can't give up on it, on them.

 _Some of them are in Greek_ , Barry told her.

Drawing in a deep, bracing breath, Iris looks for the rest of the riddle.

_The Greeks had four words for it..._

* * *

" _Mḕ kheíron béltiston._ "

Joseph frowns, hanging onto the windowsill. "'Nothing in excess'?"

"'The least bad is best,'" Hartley corrects, sitting cross-legged on the floor and watching him. "The phrase you're looking for is ' _Mēdèn ágan._ '"

"I thought you were _The Fool_ ," Wally chimes in, scraping the mortar between a pair of stones thoughtfully. "Now you speak Latin?"

"Ancient Greek, actually," Hartley corrects. When Joe and Wally pause to look at him, he explains, "I spent four years in the Good Doctor's service. He liked the Greeks." Shrugging, he adds, "It's a fun parlor trick. I know but three phrases."

"What's the third?" Joseph prompts.

Hartley smiles to himself. "' _Veni, vidi, vici.'_ "

Wally huffs. "' _I came, I saw, I conquered._ '"

Hartley pushes himself to his feet and extends a hand that Wally clasps. "A fine son you have here, Joseph."

Joseph drops from the ledge and scowls. "Not my son," he says, bracing himself for another jump.

Hartley looks between the two men and frowns. "Come, now. Surely you see the resemblance."

Wally barks a laugh. "There are more than two dark-skinned men on this continent, you know," he says caustically. "Shall I presume you are the offspring of the first white man I meet today? Perhaps the sheriff? He certainly seems fond of having you in his care."

"Easy, Wally," Joseph chides, re-securing his grip and hanging from the window, eight feet above them. "He was Zolomon's servant, his manners need refining."

Hartley scowls. "My manners are impeccable," he retorts. "Is it not even possible he is your son?"

Joseph hops down and turns to look at him, steaming. "You mean to imply I was unfaithful to my wife?"

Hartley holds up his hands. Because he has not stuck his foot in his mouth, he asks simply, "Were you?"

He might deserve the punch, but any brawl that might break out is swiftly silenced by the guards down the hall, shouting for order 'or else.' Hartley doesn't intend to find out what that means, rubbing his bruising jaw instead.

" _Do not_ speak of my wife," Joseph spits. "Ever."

"Very well," Hartley says, working his jaw. "It was merely an observation--"

He dodges the second punch, and Wally scoffs in disgust. "I take it back -- you are a fool," he says.

Grunting, Hartley retreats to a corner of the cell and Joseph leaves him be. _I almost miss Hunter,_ he thinks, knowing he would have been bailed out of jail by now if he were in the Captain's company. Instead, he gets to hang out with two disgruntled cellmates. How lucky is he?

 _Better here than an asylum,_ he thinks, shuddering at the thought of institutionalization. Incarceration is far kinder. People who go to asylums do not come back -- physically, sometimes, but mentally, never. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, extending a laurel leaf.

Joseph huffs, hopping back up to the window, and Wally keeps picking at the wall, ignoring him.

Running a hand through his hair, Hartley examines the floor and idly scratches at it with a shoe.

Who knows. If they argue enough, he might even have time to dig a hole out of here.

* * *

It's late before Jesse finds time to abandon the tavern, walking decisively across town.

She knows she shouldn't have let Wally go, should have insisted that he stay out of it, but, well, he's Wally. He wouldn't be the man she knows and loves if he didn't try to help. Still, once news circulates that Zolomon and his thugs have locked him up, she can't _not_ act.

She has no coin for a horse, but she has a lead on one. It takes a bit of asking around -- a yawning baker named Cavell points her in the right direction -- but she finds Joe's place, and the old grey horse tethered up outside. He whinnies when he sees her, and she approaches with an upraised hand and soft voice. "I'm not going to hurt you," she promises. "I need your help."

He balks, whickering. Soothingly, she continues, "Easy, Grey. You like adventure, don't you?" She gets within arm's reach and holds out a hand. Warily, Grey leans back; but then, experiencing a change of heart, he steps forward, pressing his snout against it. "That's a good boy," Jesse praises, taking his reins gently. "Come, Grey. We have woods to see and proof of the impossible to find."

She has no gun or map, but deep in the woods a sizeable fire bleeds smoke above the tree-line.

 _Thank you, Zolomon_ , she thinks, tapping the horse into a walk towards it.

If he found The Beast once, he can find him again.

And if the Distinguished Captain Hunter Zolomon can find The Beast, then so can Jesse Quick.

* * *

_Griffe_ rolls in snow one last time, standing and shaking out its sleek grey coat. The slaughter of dirty-red blood around it makes it seem its mission has already been carried out, but it lowers itself back to its belly and looks at _Dent_. The other dire wolf's gaze doesn't leave the castle.

" _How long are we to wait?_ " _Griffe_ asks impatiently.

 _Dent_ growls low. " _As long as we have to_ ," it says. " _Would you rather he escaped?_ "

Nosing the snow, _Griffe_ closes its eyes. " _You wait. I rest._ "

With a disgusted sound, _Dent_ growls acquiescence. " _Soon_ ," it breathes. " _He grows desperate. It must be soon._ "

 _Griffe_ does not acknowledge him, and _Dent_ rests its head on its paws, eyes trained unblinkingly on the castle.

Alone in the dark, _Dent_ growls, " _Come out, come out, wherever you are._ "

* * *

"This is the finest boar I've ever had," Al declares, waving a hank near the fire. "Excellent choice, my good sirs."

"Captain Zolomon is a _masterful_ shot," Ed agrees lavishly, licking his fingers.

Leaning back against a tree, Hunter smiles to himself. "Yes, I am a masterful shot, aren't I? It is only a shame the beast was so hard to find." Then, thoughtfully, he adds, "Though we shall kill an even more magnificent Beast tomorrow."

"So this Beast -- he's real?" Al asks, taking a bite of roasted boar. "Truly?"

Hunter's gaze hardens. "Would I have brought you this far if I believed otherwise?" he asks dangerously.

"I meant only that we came to bring your woman back," Al elaborates, oblivious to the dangerous waters he treads into. "But to rescue her from a monster? It seemed unbelievable."

"Zolomon does not lie," Ed assures gravely.

Bowing his head solemnly, Hunter agrees, "You would be best to remember that, Rothstein. The last Monsieur to accompany me with doubts of my veracity is currently sitting in a cell. There are worse things than jailors in the woods."

Wisely, Al doesn't say a word the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes, is stuff about to go down. You excited? I am!
> 
> French:  
>  _Mon ami_ = My (male) friend.  
>  _Mon ami flou_ = My fuzzy friend.  
>  _Houblon_ = Hops.  
>  _Ma chère_ = My dear.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shakes bag of feels* Who's ready to feel things?!

If you knew the day you would die, what would you change?

* * *

Barry doesn't know, cannot know, what awaits him.

Standing alone in the center of the ballroom, he finds he doesn't care about the premonitory ache in his chest. _It was worth it_ , he thinks. The witch made him into a monster, but if she hadn't, he never would have escaped that part of him, he never would have learned. _I would have been a beast forever._

Mantled in midnight's navy velvet cloak, dawn approaches, and dawn walks past, and still he does not move. He closes his eyes, basking in the illusion of a new day as cool blue light unspools across the marble floor. Having washed while the furniture was away, while the future was away, The Beast's fur is smooth and soft to the touch. His left leg aches dimly but not prohibitively; his shoulders lie straight but un-tense. Inexplicably, he finds a lightness to his being, as though he was just granted his good health after a lengthy convalescence.

Embracing the last day of his life, The Beast smiles up at the starry ceiling. [He hears a pianist playing an unfamiliar tune](https://youtu.be/QkkYD3tYcOA), a slow-building song. It's doubtless Cisco's work. Though Dante is the pianist, Dante the maestro, Dante the Great, it is Cisco who conceives song after song after song.

Cisco loves music, always has. The chord takes Barry back many years, to summers when they were all boys and Dante and Cisco danced around a bonfire, laughing and inviting Barry to join them. He'd always liked Dante, grounded and kempt, but it was Cisco who stayed at his side, who won his affection, who granted _everyone_ such earnest approval. Insincerity did not exist in Cisco's world; neither did mundanity. He felt it his mission to correct any instance of it, and Barry isn't surprised that his work finally won over Dante.

Swaying, Barry waits for the vocals, but the candelabra never shows. Instead, soft footsteps draw his gaze towards the staircase. He turns slowly and halts, star-struck, as he beholds the most beautiful woman in France.

In a sunflower-yellow dress, Iris radiates grace. She walks down the staircase carefully and he walks towards her, meeting her halfway. Looking up at her, he smiles shyly, astounded at his own ability to approach her, so easily, so un-thwarted. When she smiles back, he dares to alight next to her. Holding out his arm, he feels his heart race as she links arms. Wonderingly, he looks at her and thinks, _I am a Beast, yet she does not even shudder at my paw_.

Without a word, they walk down the stairs side-by-side.

A familiar voice shares the morning light with them, sweet and familiar as a lullaby. " _Tale as old as time..._ " The Beast does not take his gaze from _Belle_ , trusting his feet to know where to step, but he still finds a smile for the song. " _Tune as old as song._ " At the bottom of the stairs, they walk past a tray bearing a familiar teapot.

Barry feels a warm prickle of tears at his eyes, for he never could have anticipated how _happy_ it would make him for his mother to bear witness to this, his slow walk with the most wonderful woman to ever enter his life. He half-imagines this is why people marry. This one singular moment of knowing he shares the company of a wonderful person on a beautiful new day -- yes. This must be it.

Though his mother does not follow them, she joins them in song as they pass underneath grand arches towards the main floor. " _Bittersweet and strange, finding you can change, learning you were wrong._ " He feels Iris squeeze his arm lightly. He very gently squeezes hers back, exhaling deeply as they walk. " _Winter turns to spring,_ " his mother croons. " _Famine turns to feast._ "

Walking away from her, Barry aches to hug his mother in a way he has not since he first became a Beast, in the months before then, in years, perhaps. _I never hugged her enough_. But it cannot deflate him. _I hugged her at all_. " _Nature points the way, nothing left to say._ "

As they step into the ballroom, the Beloved Queen Nora introduces softly, " _Beauty and the Beast._ "

In the ballroom, Barry sees a clock and candelabra on top of a grand piano in the corner. Cisco waves; Caitlin nudges Cisco lightly in the side. Wearing the biggest smile Barry has seen in a while, Cisco reaches up with an unlit arm to dab his eye. Unperturbed by the festivities, Dante continues to play gently.

" _Tale as old as time,_ " his mother sings, joining them on her tray. Barry and Iris walk together towards the center of the floor, neither making a sound in the swelling music, beautiful, and golden as the candlelight around them. " _True as it can be._ " Releasing his arm, Iris steps back. Barry looks at her, taking his own step back and straightening so he is facing her directly. " _Barely even friends,_ " his mother sings, and Iris curtseys.

Dazzled, he doesn't move immediately when she rises to her feet. Catching on, he quickly lowers his head, following through with a sweeping bow, lower than he has granted even kings. Timely as always, his mother finishes, " _Then somebody bends, unexpectedly._ " He smiles to himself as he straightens, looking at Iris with indescribable pride.

" _Just a little change,_ " his mother croons, and Iris extends her hands to him. " _Small to say the least._ " He looks at her palms and then her face -- _are you certain? --_ before he takes her hands in his paws carefully. " _Both a little scared,_ " his mother admits, and Barry relaxes despite himself when Iris squeezes his paws as if to say, _me, too_. " _Neither one prepared_." Slowly, he begins to sway, and Iris follows easily. In a sing-me-to-sleep chorus, his mother finishes sweetly, " _Beauty and the Beast._ "

Dante plays on and they sway together. After a timeless interval, Iris pauses, and Barry stills. Thoughtfully, she looks up at him, still holding his paws, before gliding to first one side, then the other. Cottoning on, he mirrors her, and finds he remembers the dance better than he has any right to, given how many years it's been. She helps, guiding him to a full circle, and he plays along, holding an arm up so she might twirl under his paw. She catches on even more quickly than he does, seamlessly flowing with the motions, and he finds himself relaxing into it.

" _Ever just the same,_ " his mother croons. Barry releases one of Iris' hands so she might stand beside him. He shares a long look with her, _what would you like to do_ answered by the soft appeal of her smile: _continue_. " _Ever a surprise._ " With the slightest nod, he turns and together they waltz on.

Where he almost stumbles, she flows seamlessly, releasing his paw to spin in a semi-circle, both arms upraised. Instinct more than anything guides him to reciprocate, his left arm tucked behind his back but his right uplifted to meet hers. " _Ever as before_." With almost playful aplomb, Barry slides his arm in front of Iris' before lowering his paw and reclaiming her hand. " _Ever just as sure._ " Dancing around him, Iris holds her dress to prevent a misstep. Barry is so entranced and so at ease he doesn't remember to be uncertain as he takes both of her hands once again and sways. " _As the sun will rise._ "

Crowding each other's space in the best way, they move together, gaining confidence, losing all sense of an audience. She looks at him, and he is almost amazed at how open her expression is, how much she lets him see. Knowing he must look the same -- _smitten,_ his inner Cisco chimes in, and he doesn't have to look over to see the candelabra choking back sobs -- Barry kneels slightly so she might circle around him. Righting and taking up her hands again, he leads the way as they glide across the ballroom floor.

" _Tale as old as time,_ " his mother sings, gathering steam. Barry and Iris gain momentum, gliding steadily, unendingly across the white marble. " _Tune as old as song._ " The piano's tune encompasses them, filling the space without shouting it; Barry could almost close his eyes and lose himself to it, but he doesn't want to be anywhere but here, and he doesn't want to look at anything but Iris. " _Bittersweet and strange, finding you can change, learning you were wrong._ "

Unexpectedly, soft silver sunlight unspools across the ballroom, peeking out from behind the dark curtain of their six-month-long night. Barry feels overjoyed by its appearance, but even so, he cannot take his eyes from Iris. Staring at her, he draws her into the light, dancing across the warmth of spilled sunshine. Uninvited, it is nearly the most welcome guest of all.

Slowing, Barry twirls Iris once again and sees how she loves it, loves it like the morning dew loves the blades of grass, ephemeral and somehow more charming for it, and then she takes his paws and redirects their silent conversation, walking backwards so quickly he nearly loses his footing. But he doesn't, and the moment she stops he knows what to do. Pulling her hands towards himself, he wordlessly invites her to wrap an arm around him as he cradles her, gently dipping her.

They're unexpectedly close, and he stares at her as she stares at him, and he doesn't know what his eyes show but he hopes it is love.

 _I love you,_ he thinks, reeling her back to her feet. In one fluid motion, he lifts her, holding her high up on his hip. " _Certain as the sun_ ," his mother proclaims, and he twirls Iris, twirls her as she so loves to do, twirls her and smiles. " _Rising in the east._ " Setting her down slowly, he takes her hands gently and looks right at her.

" _Tale as old as time,_ " his mother sings softly. " _Tune as old as rhyme._ " Barry and Iris circle the floor, soft and assured. Barry's heart pounds, adrenaline relieved, the soft light already fading around them, blue and gold dappling the space as candles flicker back to life.

At last, one last gentle time, his mother croons, " _Beauty and the Beast._ "

Looking right at Iris, Barry thinks, _I love you._ Holding onto her, he insists it with every step, every heartbeat, every fiber of his being. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Dante's tune carries them to the balcony. Arm-in-arm, Barry and Iris walk up the short steps and to the threshold. Slowly, the song fades out behind them, but Barry's love for Iris only burns the brighter for it, brilliant in the quiet, aching to tell her, not daring to tell her, knowing it could change everything or nothing. In the crisp, cool morning air, he finds reality sinking into his fur, the fog of love dissipating, leaving only a sense of purposeful togetherness in its place.

She leans against his shoulder, looking out over the snowy kingdom with him, and he finds he doesn't mind the end of their magical moment. She is still, inside and out, the most beautiful person he has ever met. Her presence, fulfilling and grand, transcends time; it conquers space.

 _No matter when you leave me,_ he thinks, _you will have left me a better person._

Together, they share space, and time, for as long as they can spare it.

* * *

Listening to The Beast breathe, Iris leans against his shoulder for a long time.

At last, she asks softly, "Why can't I take you with me?"

He sighs, and she pulls back to look at his face. " _We're cursed to stay within a two-mile radius,_ " he explains. " _I can't leave._ " His silence says, _I've tried_.

Taking his paw in hand, she insists, "What if we break the curse?"

He huffs. It's not cruel or unamused; on the contrary, it's light, almost sweet. " _Ma chère,_ " he murmurs, " _the rose will die, and I will remain here forevermore. That is the fate the witch has given me._ "

She feels tears in her eyes, shaking her head. "There must be some way," she insists. "Some way to break the curse."

He tilts his head to one side, then the other, in a so-so gesture. " _There is. It's not likely._ " Amused, he adds, " _It's not your fault. You don't know what it is. How could you be responsible?_ " Lifting his paw, he gently cups her face. " _Please don't cry._ "

"I just wish I could help you," she says, and the tears only flow more steadily as she cradles his paw to her face. "I wish I could help them," she adds, pulling away slightly to nod at the ballroom, at the furniture out of sight within. "Please. Tell me. Tell me what I can do."

He reels her into a gentle hug. " _You can live a long, happy life._ "

Pillowing her head on his chest, she admits, "I want you in it."

" _I am_ ," he tells her, rubbing her back. " _At this moment. And I shall remain in it for as long as you want me._ "

"Every hour," Iris insists, holding onto him. "Every minute."

He exhales deeply and says nothing. There's a strange, unreadable tenseness to the silence, like he's waiting for something, but nothing happens. She releases him slowly, stepping back, and looks up at his face. It's hard to take the soft disappointment there, gentle and scarcely hidden. "Have I upset you?" she asks, reaching up to stroke his cheek.

Her hand halts when she hears a gunshot, heart-poundingly near. The Beast is immediately on high alert, guiding her back inside and saying swiftly, "Hold on, let me--" With scarcely a pause for breath, he lunges for the edge of the balcony, grasping it tightly in a claw and leaping over its side. In six seconds, with only the scrabble for claws to guide her to his passage, he reaches the ground four stories below with a soft _thump_.

Cisco hops over to her, asking anxiously, "Mademoiselle?"

"He's--" Throat closing, fear making itself known, Iris says, "I have to go."

She picks up her shoes and runs full-tilt for the doors.

* * *

Maw bloody and dripping scarlet onto the snow, _Griffe_ hides in the brush and hisses, " _Humans ... you return for a second chance to die?_ " It hurts terribly to speak -- the first shot shattered across its lower jaw, startling it from its sleep -- but the wolf doesn't stop. Every word increases the smell of fear that perforates the air. It is alone -- _Dent_ is nowhere in sight -- but _Griffe_ neither panics nor rages. It understands. This is the dire wolf way.

Three men against one wolf is almost fair. For the humans.

"Who was that?" one of the men asks nervously. Surreptitiously, _Griffe_ circles through the foliage towards him, nearly crawling on its belly. "Show yourself, Beast!"

" _I am not the Beast you seek,_ " _Griffe_ snarls. It spits blood and ignores its trembling legs, closing in on the weakest link. " _But I am the beast who will end you._ "

"No," a voice thunders. "You won't."

The Beast rushes forward, and the dire wolf lunges for its prey.

As soon as _Griffe_ makes its move, _Dent_ bursts from its hiding place near the second man. _Griffe's_ absorption with its prey is absolute; it cannot focus on the roaring Beast or the firestorm of bullets. Even the snarling of its sibling does not deter it from launching itself at the saddle and unseating the rider on it.

It barely touches down before The Beast throws himself over the man on the ground, caging him and snarling at _Griffe_. "Strike at your peril," he snaps.

 _Griffe_ bares its teeth, ready to end this affair, but before it can make a move, _Dent_ screams. Head jerking, _Griffe_ sees _Dent_ lying on the ground, bleeding from a deep puncture wound in its chest, a bloody spike mounted on the end of the man's gun. The man aims the barrel of his weapon at _Dent_ and _Griffe_ sees red, charging.

It isn't fast enough, but The Beast is. A saddlebag smashes into the man with enough force to stagger him, shot missing. _Griffe_ doesn't even look at the downed man or The Beast, lunging instead for the third man still on his horse and snapping its cracked teeth around the barrel of a gun, ruining it. _Dent_ whines in pain, twitching on the forest floor, and anxiety makes _Griffe_ careless. It snaps halfheartedly at the man, but it misses his jugular, crunching around his left arm instead. The pain in  _Griffe's_ jaw is immediate and unbearable; the wolf lets go and falls back. Ears ringing, _Griffe_ pants and turns to regard _Dent_.

The dire wolf cannot even stand, gasping, a terrible, mortal heaviness to its breath that makes _Griffe's_ stomach sink. The Beast has the second man cornered, weapon smashed, and two of the three horses bear slash marks -- the torn saddlebags, the wolf's lunge for the third man in the saddle -- that make the horses incoherent, eyes rolling, bellowing and stamping with fear.

In the chaos, _Griffe_ sinks its teeth into the scruff of _Dent's_ neck and drags the wolf off, leaving a trail of blood behind it. The pain in its jaw whites out its vision; necessity alone drives it on. It hears a gun fire and does not even pause to wonder, persisting as The Beast draws all attention to himself. Panting heavily from exertion, _Griffe_ does not slow, hauling hard on its sibling. " _Stay with me,_ " it growls.

Blind and deaf to the pandemonium, _Griffe_ puts maybe fifty feet between itself and the chaos before halting. Horror cracks like bone as it finally looks down at its unmoving charge. Eyes open and unbreathing, _Dent_ stares at the snow in front of it. A terrible sound, part-howl, part-cry, rises in _Griffe's_ chest. It presses its paw hard against _Dent_ , frenetic, harsh jabs that do nothing to rouse it. " _No,_ " it growls, " _no, no, NO!_ "

With a howl fit to cower a god, _Griffe_ wheels and charges, throwing itself back into the fray. Bullets thunder; beasts roar. The combined shouts of men and screams of horses become insuperably loud, drowning out any attempt at conversation. Barely able to see, _Griffe_ is less an avenging angel than a furious interloper, shouldering horses, slashing any flesh that comes into reach.

Above the ringing in its ears, it hears the thunder of retreating hooves, and sees The Beast panting nearby, his claws bloodied, his burning eyes fixed on the fleeing men. _Griffe_ stares at him, mad with pain, unsteady on its feet, and The Beast looks back at the wolf, sizing it up.

"Where's _Dent_?" The Beast demands.

 _Griffe_ does not say a word.

"Where's _Dent_?" he repeats quietly.

A low, animal hiss escapes _Griffe._ " _Dead_ ," it snarls, voice like grinding stones. " _Dead, Beast._ "

Shaking his head, The Beast orders, "Take me to it."

 _Griffe_ lowers its head, fire in its heart and eyes as it regards The Beast. " _I will not live without it."_

With a lion-like growl, The Beast snaps, "You won't have to. _Take me to it._ "

 _Griffe_ lunges for him, but with broken maw, it can do little to even stagger The Beast, and The Beast knows it, casting it aside almost carelessly. Lying dazed in the snow, _Griffe_ does not move when The Beast staggers over to it. Exhausted in ways no man could understand, it trembles. "I can save it."

Footsteps approach, followed by furtive cries of, "Barry? _Barry!_ " _Griffe_ bares its teeth but cannot snarl. It is grateful it cannot see how it looks. It must make a pitiful sight, a broken wolf, a lone wolf.

The girl comes out of the woods, and _Griffe_ hauls itself to its feet, but The Beast puts himself in front of her. "Take me to _Dent_. _Now_."

Defeated -- in every way beaten -- _Griffe_ does not move for a long moment. It regards the human and The Beast and bares its teeth in idle disgust. Humans and beasts cannot coexist. It is the first law of nature: humans-kill-wolves-and-wolves-kill-humans. Putting its back to them, _Griffe_ takes off in _Dent's_ direction.

* * *

"Are you hurt?" Iris asks, walking beside him.

Barry shakes his head. "No." He follows the wolf through the brush, grimacing when he sees the red trail halt at the unmoving wolf. "Stay behind me," he tells Iris, kneeling next to _Dent_. He yowls in pain when _Griffe_ slashes him under the eye. Swatting the wolf away, he snarls in animal frustration. "I'm _trying_ to _help_ ," he snaps. "Let me."

Steaming, _Griffe_ backs off without a word. Barry glares at it, then directs his full attention to _Dent_. Emotion twists in his own chest, stronger than he expects, for he was barely conscious when _Rouge_ died. The downing of Achilles brings him no joy. Sweeping his paws underneath the wolf, he lifts it and cradles it to his chest. _Griffe_ regards him and Iris. Barry growls deeply in warning, a sound so low it makes even Iris take a step back, and _Griffe_ wordlessly takes off towards the castle.

Following, Barry moves as quickly as he dares. 

"What's your plan?" Iris asks, running alongside him.

Barry shakes his head. "Foolish," he admits. "But the rose ... a petal might save it."

"How?" Iris asks, but he just shakes his head and speaks no more.

When Iris holds open the door for The Beast and the wolves, Cisco squawks in indignant horror. "Have you lost your _mind_?" he shrieks.

"Not now," Barry growls, charging up the stairs. _Griffe_ follows, and together they veer off down the west wing.

* * *

In the foyer, _Houblon_ whines anxiously, glancing between Iris and the missing Beast. Barely able to speak, Iris says numbly, "I shouldn't -- I can't leave him alone with them."

Shaking his head frantically, Cisco says, "Please, _Belle_ , let me handle it, let _anyone_ else handle it, do not put yourself in danger!" He clambers on top of the footstool and takes hold of one of its bristling adornments. "I will take care of it! Go,  _Houblon; go!_ "

The footstool takes off, flying up the staircase, and Iris turns to regard the solemn clock still at her side. "I have to," she says, already walking towards the stairs. "I have to."

She doesn't get another step before someone knocks on the door. "Hello?" a woman asks.

Iris and Caitlin share an astonished look. Slowly, Iris walks to the door and opens it, and the woman behind it, holding Grey's reins, blinks in surprise. "So the rumors are true," she says.

For the first time in her life, Iris is utterly speechless.

* * *

Barry has had nightmares about this, the wolves breaking into his castle. He can't see them -- it's too dark, as it is here, as it is now -- and their growls are the only sign of their presence. He knows they're near, but he never knows how near, never knows where they'll strike next, and when they finally attack, they tear him apart.

 _Griffe_ pads silently ahead, and Barry dares to follow, carrying his cargo as carefully as he can, until the blue light from the end of the corridor speeds up both the wolf's and Beast's step. Breathlessness returns to Barry at the _sight_ of the gigantic grey wolf in his doorway, in the most sacred room of his home, looking at him with demonic red eyes and a dripping red maw.

Matching colors, the red rose spins inoffensively in the center of the room. Padding over to it, _Griffe_ stares, all at once subdued as it takes a seat. Looking over at Barry expectantly, its eyes narrow. " _What are you waiting for?_ " it asks. Barry shakes himself out of his own daze, forcing each step, suddenly very, very unsure about all of this, aware that no matter how injured it is _Griffe_ can and will take him down.

He reaches the pedestal and _Griffe_ growls impatiently.

"Master!" a familiar voice crows far, far away, followed by the clattering pandemonium of a sprinting footstool down the hall. "Barry, no!"

Steeling himself, Barry lays the wolf gently on the ground, for a moment exactly eye level with its sibling, and raises himself slowly. He lifts the bell jar, ignoring Cisco's entreating shouts not to do anything. Setting the glass aside, he feels _Griffe's_ eyes on him as he reaches forward. Claws shaking, he draws in a steadying breath and says softly, " _You said love was the answer._ "

Then he plucks a petal.

* * *

Being in the presence of the rose humbles _Griffe_ in a way it does not expect.

It sits, and it watches The Beast without malice as he approaches the rose. With a trembling paw, The Beast reaches for it. Just before he touches it, he states, "You said love was the answer." _Griffe's_ heart skips a beat, and then The Beast plucks a single petal and has but a moment of coherence to thrust it into _Dent's_ open wound before falling back a step, clutching his own chest.

 _Griffe_ doesn't care, watching its sibling with absolute focus, arresting focus that doesn't snap even as The Beast's attempts to control his own discomfort fail and he roars in pain, falling to his knees. The rose and Beast become a secondary concern as _Griffe_ stares at _Dent_.

 _You will guard your siblings with your life_ , it thinks, and it aches for _Rouge_ and _Dent_ so exceptionally it nearly lies down and _dies_.

Instead, it does not move, it does not breathe, and then the petal begins to glow gold, brilliantly gold, until the light is blinding, consuming _Dent_. For a moment, _Griffe_ feels its own heart break, horrified because it-didn't-work-it-didn't-work, but then the light begins to melt away and a grey dire wolf blinks on the floor, chest rising and falling steadily, puncture mark gone. Indeed, every scratch is gone, its fur pristine.

Consumed with relief, _Griffe_ howls, and its sibling looks at it and rises, pressing its snout against _Griffe's_ shoulder. " _I'm fine_ ," it assures, rubbing its nose against the side of _Griffe's_ snout, and a strange tingling follows before the pain melts away as the light did. Euphoria quickly shoulders in, and _Griffe_ tackles _Dent_ , not malevolently, but with great joy in its heart, nuzzling the wolf as _Dent_ insists, " _I'm fine._ "

Whining in relief, _Griffe_ rises and looks over at The Beast, breathing heavily as he stares at the floor, glassy-eyed and shaking. " _You did this_ ," it says, and it can't discern the emotions in its own voice.

" _Thank you,_ " _Dent_ says, and The Beast looks at the two of them, blue-green eyes so _human_ , and _Griffe_ thinks _humans-kill-wolves_ but the truth stares unblinkingly back at him.

"Bring me _Rouge_ ," is all The Beast says, and then he collapses.

* * *

For one horrible moment, Cisco thinks it's all over.

He enters the room just as the wolves disappear over the balcony edge, leaping from rooftop to ground in a series of noisy clicks that silence the second they hit the snow. Letting go of _Houblon_ , Cisco pitches face-first on the floor before righting himself. He can barely speak, voice gone, as he hops towards the collapsed Beast. "Barry," he gasps, nearly voiceless. "Barry, my friend, please."

With a low groan, The Beast lifts himself to hands and knees, and Cisco could weep for relief. Hugging the Beast's arm tightly, he says, "I am so glad you are _alive_." None of his candles are lit, and the room is dark and cold, so different from the ballroom, but his heart sings with joy when he sees the rose intact in the center of the room. Three petals left.

He swallows hard. "Three petals," he observes. Barry groans and doesn't say a word.

* * *

They almost get away with it, but then Caitlin and Iris share a look, and the illusion is broken.

"Did that clock move?" the woman asks.

Shaking her head, Caitlin grimaces. "Yes," she admits. "Sorry."

"Who are you?" Iris repeats. "What are you doing here? Why do you have my _horse_?" she adds, reaching for Grey as he pushes his head into her palm. Wordlessly, the woman passes her the reins and Iris steps outside, hugging her horse's head in relief. "Oh, my lovely boy, I missed you," she tells him, eyes closed, shaking slightly.

"That clock can talk," the woman says dazedly. "How is this real?"

"It's an enchantment," the clock in question explains. "We were cursed by a witch. She wasn't," she adds, pointing at Iris. "The rest of the castle was."

"Gods be good," the woman breathes. "How is that even possible?"

"You'll adjust," Caitlin assures. "Everyone does eventually."

"I -- I came to find The Beast," the woman explains. "I followed Captain Zolomon and his crew, but they -- they came into trouble, and I thought -- you haven't seen them, have you?"

Iris steps back from Grey, regarding the woman for the first time fully. "The Beast?" she repeats with a frown, unconcerned about Zolomon.

"Isn't there one?" the woman hedges.

At that very moment, an earth-shaking roar emanates from the west wing of the castle.

Iris and Caitlin don't even try to deny it.

* * *

"It's a monster," Ed declares, holding a bloody rag to his slashed cheek. "Captain, I do not doubt your prodigious hunting skills--"

"As you shouldn't," the Distinguished Captain Hunter Zolomon says shortly. Al finishes the splint on his arm for him and Zolomon stands, mounting his horse without delay. "But it will take more than one man to haul the monster back to town for the feast," he finishes for Ed.

"We have to kill it," Al says in a low voice. He's scratched and bruised from his fall from the horse, but largely uninjured. Had the Beast not been distracted by the commotion of the wolves going after Ed and then Hunter, he doubtless would have been slaughtered by it. Shaken the close encounter with the monster, he's relieved to be alive -- and more relieved than ever to be in the company of the Distinguished Captain. "It's dangerous. Far more dangerous than any wolf."

"Even the wolves wouldn't attack it," Zolomon points out. "They were frightened."

"I'll say," Ed says, rubbing his chest. " _I_ was frightened, and I'm far tougher than any brute."

Zolomon reaches for a flask on his horse's saddlebags and downs a deep swig. "Nature cannot control its own monstrosities," he announces, "so it enlists men to do its work for it. I now see how fear of the monster has kept my wife in its captivity. My objective remains unchanged."

Al feels his own chest swell with anticipation as Zolomon thunders, "I say we _kill the Beast._ We will gather every man, woman, and child who so desires and storm the brute's castle. We will drag him from his lair and put him down like the animal he is. And then we will be free of his vile influence forever."

" _Yes_ ," Ed agrees, dropping the rag from his face and turning his horse in a partial circle, oriented towards the village. "We must not delay."

Al scrambles to mount his own horse, saying, "Excellent idea, Captain, truly--"

Zolomon kicks his horse off and the boys scramble to follow, leaving thoughts of wolves far behind, and killing beasts close at hand.

* * *

"Is this normal?" the woman asks, permitting herself to be manhandled by Iris across the foyer.

She can't see what Iris clearly sees over her shoulder, which is probably for the best, as it is a terrible sight: a pair of grey dire wolves approach the castle. A limp wolf is draped across its uninjured sibling as the red-jawed dire walks alongside them. Together, they make a nightmarish image, red-eyed and approaching like silent death across the lawn. Grey, too petrified to even run, snorts and backs away from them. Unaware of the wolves, their visitor frowns at Iris until the dires reach the doors.

Everyone falls silent when they step inside, paws padding noiselessly on the floor. They don't even look at the humans or furniture, proceeding up the stairs and down the west wing wordlessly. The woman stands mutely beside Iris for a long moment, unable to find words. "This is not normal," she says at last.

"No, it's not," Iris agrees, putting a stabilizing arm around her even though she's gone cold from the sight, too. "Come on, let me -- we should talk," she decides.

"Those wolves have red eyes," the woman says, letting herself be led along as Caitlin quietly shuts the door.

"They're dire wolves. Very powerful wolves."

"They have red eyes."

Iris nods. "It's their preferred color." Directing the woman into one of the hosting rooms, Iris encourages her to take a seat in a chair as she does the same in one opposite her. "What are you doing here? What's your name?"

"Jesse Quick," the woman answers. "I'm looking for -- well, a Beast."

Iris frowns and waves a hand when she sees the teapot in the doorway. Bumbling over, the tray pauses next to them and Nora pours them each a cup of tea.

"Why?" Iris asks, but Jesse's gaze is fixed on the teapot. "Don't worry. The tea isn't alive."

"I -- my friend, he's imprisoned. I thought maybe ... if I could find proof of The Beast, I could free him." Warily, Jesse takes the cup. "Are you quite certain?"

Iris nods, taking a sip from her own cup. "Quite certain," Nora assures.

Jesse exhales. "This is stranger than I thought." Then, slowly, she says, "You're his daughter. The girl who went missing in the woods."

Iris sets her cup down. "You know my father?"

Jesse nods. "Of course." Then, hesitating, she takes another sip of tea. "He's -- well, he was believed as much as my friend was, when it came to Beasts."

"You mean to say he's in jail?" Iris asks, sitting up.

Jesse nods grimly. "Pending institutionalization."

Up on her feet, Iris insists heatedly, "My father's not crazy."

"I don't doubt it," Jesse assures. "I'm here to prove the contrary. Although I'm not sure the truth seems less crazy."

"I have to--" Heart twisting, Iris finishes, "I have to go. I have to help him. They can't lock him up for this, this is all my fault--" Looking at Jesse, she says, "Have you any objections to returning to the village?"

Shaking her head, Jesse says sincerely, "I'd much prefer it. This place is rather disarming."

Scarcely sharing the sentiment, Iris nods anyway. "I -- I have to attend something first. I'll be back." She takes off, moving quickly, aching already at the thought of what she must say.

* * *

Upon awakening, the first thing _Rouge_ does is try to kill Barry.

Barry supposes it's fair -- given _Rouge_ is his own flesh and blood, its reactions are a projection of his own temperament -- but he's weak enough that the wolf manages to tackle him before he throws it off. " _You killed me!_ " _Rouge_ roars, righting itself. _Griffe_ and _Dent_ stand by the wall, completely committed to _Rouge's_ cause but simultaneously unwilling to hurt The Beast.

"I did _not_ ," Barry snarls, struggling to his feet. "The man in the red cloak did."

" _Lies_ ," _Rouge_ snaps.

But _Dent_ interrupts quietly: "Rouge, _he speaks true._ "

The dire wolf swings around, staring at _Dent_ , and then at _Griffe._ Barry can almost hear the plea. _Say it isn't true._ " _The Beast is the source of all of our problems,_ " the wolf entreats. " _Humans kill wolves--"_

" _He's a wolf._ "

 _Griffe's_ firm statement halts _Rouge_ in its track. Walking up to its siblings, _Rouge_ stops before them and looks between them, searching for answers unforthcoming. Turning back to the sad rose in the center of the room with but two petals left to its name, _Rouge_ exhales harshly.

Gaze sliding to The Beast, it approaches. Barry tenses, but _Rouge_ simply halts in front of him. They stare at each other for a long moment, and Barry sees all the anger that he brought to the table, all the fear and grief, all the painful emotions that bled into _Rouge_ when the wolf was created from one of his ribs, and feels a moment of pity.

Then the wolf bows its head, and Barry feels a flicker of gratitude that he wasn't a monster to his core. That there is enough of a good man in him to have instilled a sense of _goodness_ in _Rouge_. " _Very well_ ," it says, raising its head and looking at him. Stepping back, it adds, " _I rescind our previous agreement._ "

Barry frowns. "I do not wish to be your enemy."

 _Rouge_ bares its teeth a little. It's almost a smile. " _No. You're our sibling._ " Lifting its head, it declares, " _Humans kill wolves, and wolves kill humans. But siblings do not kill siblings._ "

Barry asks, "Will you still hurt my friends?"

 _Rouge_ looks momentarily tempted to bite, but it shakes its head instead. " _It is not the dire wolf's way,_ " is all it says.

Before Barry can question it farther, it takes off the way _Dent_ and _Griffe_ brought it, and the dire wolves follow, _Dent's_ wounds the sole evidence of their terrible battles. The dire wolf will heal -- with time, always with time -- and _Dent_ and _Rouge_ can protect it.

Barry doesn't exhale until they're gone. He experiences a moment of panic that they will slaughter Volo, but he hears no screaming horse, and dares to relax. Sinking to his knees on the floor, he closes his eyes and breathes, and breathes, and breathes, trying to calm his shaking limbs.

Two petals, for two wolves.

And now, he thinks, blinking slowly at the remaining petals, two left.

_Two chances._

Swallowing hard, he struggles to his feet.

 _I have to try_ , he thinks, even if he fails, even if he cannot possibly succeed. _I have to try._

* * *

Iris meets him halfway and shrieks involuntarily in alarm as The Beast growls loudly, equally startled. Quickly recognizing their predicament, Barry says, "Iris?" and the latter exhales sharply.

"Oh, thank God," she says, and he can't see her but he feels it when she hugs him hard. "The wolves didn't hurt you?" she asks.

"Iris, what are you--" He rests a paw on her back and shakes his head. "No, they didn't. Here, follow me." Taking her hand, he guides her down the hall, remembering the steps where he cannot see them, and she stays silent the whole way. He worries about it, and worries even more when they step into the foyer and she immediately turns to him. There are tears in her eyes. "What happened?" he asks softly, holding her upper arms gently.

"My father," she says, and his stomach sinks. "He's -- they _jailed_ him, all because they think he's mad. They're going to put him in an asylum. I have to--" A tear spills over. "I'm sorry. I can't stay."

Rallying his strength, Barry keeps his voice steady as he says, "Go."

"I'm sorry," Iris whispers.

Letting go of her arms, Barry takes a step back. "He needs you. I ran when my father needed me. Iris. _Go_. The wolves won't bother you. If you leave now, you'll be there before sundown." The implicit _reunited with your father_ goes unspoken. "Iris. Go _home_." He's so gentle about it, aching to let her know it's all right, that she steps forward to hug him tightly.

"I'm coming back," she whispers, stepping back and repeating, "I'm coming back."

"Save your father," Barry instructs quietly, "as I could not save mine."

Turning, she walks away, down the stairs without looking back, out the door without looking back, and Barry stares in helpless agony at the closed door, at the clip of -- two horses? He doesn't bother investigate, swaying at the top of the stairs, overcome with reality.

 _I just damned them all,_ he thinks, and the tears finally flow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:  
>  _Ma chère_ = My dear.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end! Things get real. Exciting stuff coming up, too!

For the record, here's what [Ed Slick](http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/gotham-inc/images/f/f8/Kett_Turton.png/revision/latest/scale-to-width-down/260?cb=20141027092541) and [Al Rothstein](http://ia.media-imdb.com/images/M/MV5BMjM4NDQ5NTc5Ml5BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwMzAwNjc5MjE@._V1_SX640_SY720_.jpg) look like, in case you forgot.

* * *

Standing on the balcony, Barry says softly, "I had to let her go."

Unable to cry, the candelabra leans against The Beast's foot and assures, "I know."

"I'm sorry."

Picking himself up, Cisco brushes at his dry eyes and sniffs. "It is fine," he assures, hopping off. Clearing his throat, he all but shouts down the hall, "It is fine!" _Houblon_ , whining, joins the candelabra and follows him away, away from this terrible watchful place, and Barry cannot speak for a long moment, heart breaking.

"Please hate me," he entreats the clock on the floor. "Please." Claws clutching the stone, he stares after Iris and says, "I beg of you, despise me for what I have done to you."

"There have been times when I have hated you," Caitlin admits quietly. "Now is not one of them."

A tear drops onto Barry's paw, but he does not look away from the vanishing white mare. "I'm sorry," he says again. "If there was any way -- I would remain a Beast for a thousand years, ten thousand, if it would free you -- I would give up my own life if it would prevent this curse from being finished."

"You tried," Caitlin murmurs. Following Cisco's path, she sidles off, leaving him alone.

Burying his face in his paws, Barry rests his elbows on the stone wall, overcome with anger at himself, at fear for their future, at the heart-breaking, world-ending realization that it's over. No longer do the twenty-eight petals shine, daring him to touch the rose that could end his life. Just two petals are left. And Iris is gone.

Iris is gone.

Looking up, he watches the white horse trailing away. " _I was the one who had it all_ ," he announces softly. " _I was the_ master _of my fate_ ," he snaps, clutching the fur on either side of his neck so tightly he nearly tears it out. " _I never needed anybody in my life_." Relaxing his grip, he lowers both paws and sighs. " _I learnt the truth too late_." He tries unsuccessfully to tear his gaze away, but the empty castle only intensifies the ache in his chest, and he finds himself looking out at the grounds again.

" _I'll never shake away the pain,_ " he announces quietly. Shutting his eyes, he admits, " _I close my eyes, but she's still there._ " He looks out and searches for her, but she's gone, invisible under forest cover.

Suddenly desperate to see her, just once more, he turns sharply and begins to climb the tower, emerging on the next floor. His gaze slides over the trees, his heart pounding as he looks for her. And then -- there. Shrinking with every step, but still there. " _I let her steal into my melancholy heart,_ " he tells the witch who is not listening, the world that is not watching, the one who cannot hear him. Paws clutching the wall, he professes, " _It's more than I can bear._ "

She disappears, and he climbs again, circling the tower, aching not to remember the day past. Paws crunching over snow, he steps up to the next balcony and relaxes at the white mare and her rider, deep in the woods. " _Now I know she'll never leave me,_ " he sings, " _even as she runs away._ " Turning away, he anticipates her disappearance, throwing himself at the stairs as he chides himself, " _She will still torment me, calm me, hurt me, move me -- come what may._ "

Shaking his head, he crests the balcony and does not see her, carrying on upward, for there is a view, oh it is to die for, up there. " _Wasting in my lonely tower,_ " he declares, paw glancing the wall, acutely aware that this is to be his life, this is to be the very rest of his days, " _waiting by an open door._ " He steps outside and looks for her, but even with his keen eyes he cannot find her. His shoulders deflate. An unnamable anguish builds in his chest. " _I'll fool myself she'll walk right in,_ " he huffs, sinking back onto his haunches. " _And be with me, forevermore._ "

A hint of movement teases his eyesight, and he perks up, straining to find it again as it fades into the forest, all but scrambling up another story. " _I rage against the trials of love,_ " he growls, taking the steps nearly three at a time. " _I curse the fading of the light._ " Panting, he draws onto the open balcony, a connecting stone bridge thrown between the two turrets. " _Though she's already flown so far beyond my reach_ ," he acknowledges, heart pounding as he watches her, featureless and fleeting, " _she's never out of sight._ "

With a deep breath, he declares, " _Now I know she'll never leave me, even as she fades from view._ " Walking across the top of the wall between two turrets, he chases a better view. " _She will still inspire me, be a part, of everything I do._ " Pausing at the edge of the walk, he scans the woods with heart-pounding hopefulness, but she's too far. Undeterred, he charges up the next set of stairs, singing, " _Wasting in my lonely tower. Waiting by an open door._ " Staggering out onto the balcony, he exhales, anticipation in every heart-beat, _Iris, Iris, Iris!_

She doesn't reappear. Instinctively, he turns, ready to climb higher, but the tower leads no farther.

Barry swallows, a crushing sort of loneliness sinking into his chest. " _I'll fool myself she'll walk right in_ ," he murmurs. " _And as the long, long nights begin--"_ His paws crunch inoffensively through snow as he approaches the edge of the balcony. From here, a fall would be fatal even for him, but he doesn't pause until he is at the edge of the walk, at the limits of his castle, at the end of his chains, and still straining towards her. "-- _I'll think of all that might have been._ "

Inhaling, he staggers back and proclaims, " _Waiting here for-ever-more._ "

* * *

 _Two left_ , Cisco thinks, delirious with disbelief. " _Ma chérie!_ " he calls, hopping as quickly as he can across the castle. It isn't fast enough, not by half, but after an agonizing quarter-hour he finds his beloved on a windowsill. "Oh, my darling, my beautiful feather-duster," he breathes, struggling forward, stiffer than he's used to. "Are you all right?"

"I feel ... strange," the feather-duster admits. She drifts down to him, and he captures her in his unlit arms. "Like this is all a dream."

"A nightmare that will be over soon," Cisco promises, and hates the implication of his words. "The girl will return!" he course-corrects bracingly. "She must! She loves him!"

Cindy sighs and curls up close to him. "It has been so wonderful to love you," she tells him, and he hugs her back fiercely.

"We have so many years ahead!" he promises with flagging courage. "You will grow sick of me, I will love you so much!"

"I love you," Cindy says simply. "No matter where we go -- whatever happens after we disappear -- I will have loved you for the rest of my life."

Holding onto his own life with every ounce of strength he has, Cisco vows, " _Je t'aimerai toujours._ "

* * *

Just past the snow-line, Jesse reins Grey back. Iris brings Volo to a halt beside her. "Go," Jesse encourages. "It will take twice as long for us."

"I can't leave you," Iris protests.

Jesse pats Grey's neck and assures, "We'll join you soon enough. But you must go with as much haste as you can." Quietly, she adds, "It is not only your father who is endangered. My friend is as well."

"Zolomon won't harm them," Iris says with more conviction than she feels. "He wouldn't dare."

"You've seen the man." Walking Grey, Jesse insists, "Go. I'll catch up with you."

Iris hesitates but a moment longer. "Are you sure?"

Jesse nods. "Please," she entreats.

Already chomping at the bit, Volo needs no encouragement to fly. Iris leans over her neck as they canter through the forest, urging her on. Though she desperately wants to be with her father, she hates to leave the other woman to the mercy of the woods. Ultimately, it is the weight of her promise to The Beast -- _I'm coming back --_ that spurs her on.

 _I'm coming back_ , she pleads, begging the universe to wait. _I have to help my father first. But I'm coming back._

For its part, the universe does not respond.

* * *

Scarcely a mile from town, rain comes down in steady sheets, but ahead, the Captain does not even flinch from it. "Good God, Zolomon, you are a spirited one!" Al huffs, struggling to keep up on his own horse, amply frightened of a fall that could break horse and rider's necks. "Why such a rush?"

"Captains have places to be," Ed reminds over the drizzle. The Captain charges ahead, cutting across the dark meadow on his fleet-footed mare, nearly at town. His sling sails behind him as he unties it one-handed, discarding it. "He's a very important person!"

Al huffs, astounded at the man's spirit. His astonishment only grows as Zolomon and _Courir_ plunge into town, overturning carts and nearly trampling unsuspecting people in the process. Ed and Al join the fray just in time to see Hunter bring his mare to a halt.

" _War_ is upon us," Zolomon thunders, yanking on his mare's reins until she rears, driving back anyone still near him. The display riles the startled crowd, forcing people back into a circle around the Captain and his horse. The moment _Courir's_ hooves touch down, Zolomon growls, "There's a _Beast_ in our woods."

Murmurs flutter from person to person. Al and Ed rein their own horses in a good distance away from the center of the square. Speaking in his usual booming, articulate fashion, Zolomon declares, "See the scars upon my horse!" Again, he forces the animal to balk brilliantly, whinnying in alarm.

The sight draws terrified gasps from the assembly, red stripes sawed into her side, too ragged for any sword, too elongate for any wolf, a series of swipes inconsistent with a bear's. "It attacked her!" Zolomon roars, seeming half a beast himself, his fury titanic. "It attacked all of us!" He thrusts his left fist into the air and draws back the sleeve, renewing alarmed chatter from the crowd at the sight of massive puncture wounds.

Despite what must be considerable pain, the Captain's voice remains steely instead of raw as he challenges, "Tell me what _wolf_ could do this," he defies, "what boar, what bear, what creation of God's -- but a monster?"

"How near is it?" a man asks, duly hushed.

"What kind of monster?" another inquires.

"How could any animal leave such terrible scars?" a third one shouts over the growing din of queries.

Rather than being off-put by the attention, Zolomon thrives under it. "It draws nearer by the hour," he prophesizes. "A day's ride today, in our very homes tomorrow!" Dismounting, he stalks towards the crowd and snarls, "Big as a bear, quick as a wolf. It's a _Beast_ \-- it's got _fangs_ , razor-sharp ones." Holding up his bloody arm, he shouts, "Massive paws, killer claws for the feast!"

People reel; a rumble of thunder augments the flurry of voices. In the growing storm, Zolomon eggs them on, shouting, " _We're not safe until he's dead!_ "

Ed chimes in. "He'll come stalking us at night!"

A woman clutching her child shrieks, "Sent to sacrifice our children to his _monstrous_ appetite!"

Two men take up their own guns and raise them, shouting, "He'll wreak havoc on our village if we let him wander free!"

"So it's time to take some actions, boys -- it's time to _follow me_ ," Zolomon proclaims, seizing the reins of his horse and reclaiming the saddle. Over the patter of rain and prance of hooves, Zolomon stands in the saddle and shouts, "Who among you is brave enough to kill a Beast?"

A roar greets him, and Al marvels at the display, keeping his own mare steady with an effort. "Easy," he murmurs, patting her neck, but his voice barely rises about the storm. "The Good Captain knows exactly what he's doing," he tells the mare.

* * *

"Go, Volo -- _go_ ," Iris urges, even as the weather converges upon her, an afternoon storm making its way through the treetops. In the distance, she can hear shouting and gunfire, a terrible clamor becoming more and more terrible with every step. She presses forward with all the nerve she dares in the increasing deluge, galloping the final quarter-mile and halting Volo at the edge of town. "What madness is this?" she exclaims, hopping down.

" _Ah_ , there she is!" a familiar voice announces. She turns when boots hit the cobbles to face him head-on. With nearly dislocating force, Hunter takes hold of her arm and upraises it, declaring to all, "The _Belle_ who first found the monster, freed at last! Which among you will be his next prisoner?"

Iris tugs her arm, but she can't break free; he's too strong. Heatedly, she snaps, "I was _not_ his prisoner."

"That's not the story old Joseph told," Hunter reminds, drawing caustic laughter from nearby. "The poor woman's so traumatized, she's confused her own story! The Beast held her captive for _days_!" Lowering her arm, Hunter draws her into an iron embrace. "I will protect her -- and all of you noble people! -- for the rest of my days."

"Let _go_ of me," Iris seethes, jabbing a heel against his instep hard. Insulated in a steely boot, he doesn't even flinch, laughing as he lets her reel away, keeping a tight grip on her wrist. "This man is a monster!"

"My dear Iris," Hunter states, lowering his voice to a nearly inaudible whisper, "if you ever wish to see your dearest father again, you would be wise to keep that beautiful mouth of yours shut."

Iris' heart plunges. "What have you done to him?" she demands, hating how her voice shakes. "If you harmed him--"

Hunter scoffs. "You'll harm me? That's uncomely." He lets go of her so suddenly she stumbles and falls in a puddle. Solicitously, one of his lackeys steps forward and ensnares her in a seemingly polite -- but formidable -- grip, preventing a retaliation. "No, let her try," Hunter simpers, holding out his arms. The wolves got to him; the puncture marks on his left arm are unmistakable.

"You told them he did that," she surmises lowly, and the lackey releases her. She stumbles but does not fall, regaining her footing and standing straight. His smile does not waver nor lose its humor. Judging by the chaos around them -- horses whinnying with every crackle of thunder, people shouting to be heard -- he thinks he's already won. Iris hates that she doesn't think he's wrong. "He _saved_ your _life_ , you ungrateful fool."

"Saved it?" Hunter laughs. "You're more addled than I accounted for. Come, come -- rebuke me!" When she makes no move, he gestures around himself, asking, "Whose side do you think these people are _on_? The woman who spends time talking to sheep and running through the woods -- or the beloved Captain, here to rescue them from a monster?"

Iris shakes her head, insisting, "My father -- Wally, Hartley --"

"A mad man, a bastard, and a deserter," Hunter ticks off his fingers. "Yes, their word has _very_ great weight in this town. And you forget I have friends of my own now," he adds, gesturing at a man still in the saddle and the one who grabbed her before. "Both of whom will attest the very same thing."

"He tried to kill us," the rider declares.

"He would have, had it not been for our heroic Captain," the standing man finishes.

"Come, boys -- we have business to attend," Hunter says sharply. "Iris, you have two choices -- you will accompany me, or I will imprison you for obstruction until I return to reclaim you as my wife."

"I will _never_ marry you," Iris says, spitting on his face.

Hunter's smile twitches. Hastily, the standing man passes him a handkerchief -- rather damp from the rain -- and Hunter makes a show of wiping his face before throwing it at her feet. "Very well," he says caustically. "We'll do it your way."

With bruising force, he seizes her wrist before she can run and all but throws her at the standing man. "Take her away," he orders, re-mounting his horse. "We're _leaving._ "

Iris tugs futilely at the man's hold, shouting, "He's lying!" at anyone who will listen. No one even passes her a glance as the man drags her away. "Let me _go_! The Beast, he's _gentle_ , he won't hurt you!"

A few people laugh, following Hunter on horseback, satchels over shoulders, guns and even knives in hand. Iris' stomach turns over as the mob swells, marching after their beloved Captain without question.

Even over the rain, she can hear them chanting as they march into the woods, " _We don't like -- what we don't -- understand -- in fact it scares us -- and this monster is mysterious at least. Bring your guns, bring your knives, save your children and your wives, we'll save our village and our lives -- let's kill the Beast! Kill the Beast!_ "

Heart in her throat, Iris strains for freedom to the very moment she is thrown into a cell, scrambling to her feet even as the door slams shut behind her. "Take good care of her," the lackey urges, pitching the sheriff a gold coin.

With a satisfied nod, the sheriff assures, "She won't go anywhere."

 _The hell I won't_ , Iris thinks, tugging experimentally at the bars.

The rain pours in as the town empties out, Iris' gusto deflating as she clutches the bars and listens to the song disappear.

"Iris?" a voice shouts, and then, louder, " _Iris!_ "

Lunging forward, Iris strains to see farther down the hall. "Father!" she cries. "I'm here!"

"Oh, thank God," her father says. "I half-thought he'd rescinded his offer and kept you forever."

Shaking her head, Iris resists the tears that want to fall at the reminder of The Beast. "No, of course not -- but Father, there's a mob--"

"We heard," her father assures grimly.

"'Kill the Beast,'" the Hartley man chimes in. "Very catchy."

"We have to stop them."

"Why?" Wally asks. "If we let them kill him, they'll come home and free us, and we can all go about our merry lives again."

"He doesn't deserve to _die_ just because they're frightened of how he looks," Iris snaps back. "He was a man -- a prince!"

"A prince," Hartley drawls. Wally laughs. "Oh, how I wish to live in your world of adventures."

"I'm not _lying_ ," Iris growls.

"I know," her father assures, and both men at his side fall silent. "But what can we possibly do to stop them?"

Iris sighs. "I don't know," she admits. "But we have to do something. We _have_ to," she insists. "Father, you're good with your hands, perhaps you might fashion us something useful?"

She can almost see him shake his head. "I've tried, Daughter, but there isn't even a metal spring here. Nothing whatsoever to--" _escape_ , he leaves unfinished.

"Enough yammering," a guard barks, whacking his stick on the bars. Iris steps back and glares at him, tilting her chin up, refusing to be cowed. "You're giving me a headache."

Once he's out of sight again, Iris deflates, looking towards the windowless wall and frowning.

_This is dire timing._

* * *

" _Mein Baby, du musst mir helfen, mein Baby zu finden!_ "

Blinking blearily -- it's been hours, and now _she's_ the one with the headache -- Iris frowns, looking at the end of the hall at the staircase. Above them, a woman weeps. Disgruntled, the sheriff replies, "Speak plainly, woman, I can't understand you."

" _Mein Baby,_ " the woman repeats, sobbing loudly. " _Du musst mir helfen._ "

"All right, settle down--" A sudden _clank_ silences him, and then something drops like a sack of potatoes. The guard frowns and rushes down the hall, barking the man's name -- to no effect.

A second sack of potatoes falls, and then quick footsteps lead down into the cellar. "Gods be good, I'm going to pay for that," Jesse Quick says, brandishing a frying pan. "Any others?"

"I quite love you," Iris declares, heart pounding in relief. "No, just those two -- did you really --"

"Please don't remind me of what I've done or I might actually regret it," Jesse says, hastily turning on her heel and relaxing when she sees the downed guard. "Right. Well. Best be getting out of here, shall we?" She fetches the keys off the guard's belt, adding, "I had to take a circuitous route, there's a -- rather large entourage of pitchfork wielders moving towards a certain castle."

"I believe I know the entourage," Iris says grimly. Jesse drops her frying pan as she unlocks the door, blinking in surprise when Iris hugs her. "Thank you." Releasing her, Iris runs to the end of the hall and grasps the bars of her father's cell, his hands covering hers as Jesse hastens to catch up. The moment the gate opens, he sweeps outside and envelops her in a tight hug.

"My wonderful daughter," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her hair. Tears fill her eyes; she clutches his back for a long moment. "Thank God you are all right."

"I have to go," she tells him. "I have to warn him, The Beast, or they'll -- they'll kill him."

"Go," her father says simply. "I'll find a way to rejoin you."

"You'll be careful, though?" Iris asks, needing to, even as she pulls away.

Her father smiles. "So careful you'll chide me for having no fun," he says simply. "Go."

She needs no further prompting, racing off to find her beloved white mare -- and her imperiled Beast.

* * *

"You are a marvelous woman," Wally declares, sweeping Jesse up into a hug, twirling her once in the air before setting her down.

"Plenty of time for cheery reunions away from here," Joe grunts, grasping him and Hartley both by the collar and propelling them towards the door after Iris. "Off we go."

"Have I been adopted?" Hartley asks, tripping over a stair. "This feels awfully paternal."

Joe snorts. "I have no room in my life for three children, _go_."

"Really? You have such a knack for it," Hartley drawls, yelping when Wally grabs his wrist and careens upstairs, towing him along. "All right, all right, easy as she does it! What an arm!"

"Yes, it's miraculous," Wally says briskly.

"Keep your voices _down_ ," Joe snaps.

For her part, Jesse chimes in after them, "This does feel awfully paternal."

With an exasperated sigh, Joe proceeds stormily after the boys, hauling the door shut after Jesse. He doesn't pause until they're at his house, all a little out of breath, adrenaline and relief mingling. "Right, easy part over," he puffs, gratefully retrieving a shaken-looking Grey, huddled under an awning near the house. "More difficult part begun." Climbing into the saddle, he adds, "Lie low. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Jesse sees Wally and Hartley exchange a look. "You're mad," Hartley says, "if you think we're missing this."

"Mad," Wally agrees.

Joe shakes his head, and Jesse sees the arguments building as he begins formally, "Now, boys -- how would you even get to the castle?"

"With chickens," a voice prompts. All three of them turn to the woman standing cloaked in the rain. Her smile is caught between trust-me and I-am-up-to-no-good. She has a hen under either arm, stating, "That is, unless you'd rather walk." A third hen plucks hopefully at her cloak on the ground, walking towards them.

Wally looks at the chickens, the woman, and the chickens again. Looking up at the woman, he asks slowly, "Are you quite all right?"

"Never better," the woman assures. "Would you like the help or not?"

"It would be difficult to saddle a chicken," Joe begins, hopping down. He takes care to be polite, a hand on Wally's shoulder warningly. Hartley opens his mouth and Joe squeezes his shoulder hard enough that he shuts it, words unsaid. "Otherwise, certainly."

"Saddle size won't be an issue," the woman says. "Do you accept?"

Before either boy can chime in to the contrary, Jesse nods once. "We do."

The woman sets both hens down and advises, "Step back." They all back away, curiosity creeping into anxiety when nothing happens for a long moment. Then the woman says, " _By the laws of the Earth, the land, and mighty sea, I break the age-old confinements placed upon them, and grant them a new life._ " Exhaling, she proclaims, " _Arise, my darlings, and assume your true forms._ "

Mist envelopes each of the birds, and Joe drags Hartley and Wally back another step even as Jesse proceeds closer, entranced. A whinny penetrates the fog, and before their very eyes the mist clears and three black horses stand.

Hartley sits down, and Joe himself looks thunderstruck. In a dazed voice, Wally asks hopefully, "For the love of God, will you teach me how to do that?"

The woman laughs. "Be gentle with them," she advises. "They're very old."

"They're magnificent," Jesse says, awed, stepping towards the shortest one and holding out a hand. "Hello, my wonderful girl."

The mare presses her snout against Jesse's hand and whickers. _Hello, my wonderful girl,_ it echoes.

"Oh," Wally says, and then, louder, "oh. That's normal. _They talk._ "

The woman holds up a finger to her lips, winking conspiratorially. "Only to those who listen," she says.

"Though this is an absolutely fascinating conversation," Joe begins, climbing onto his own mount and tugging Grey's reins lightly. All three mares look at the grey stallion, who freezes, almost self-consciously, and lowers his head. "My daughter is in danger, and there is indeed an angry mob about to slaughter her newest friend," he finishes.

"What charmed lives we live," Hartley mutters, claiming the third beast as Wally steps up to the second, who clips playfully at his hair.

"I quite like this one," Wally says, rubbing her neck. "Do they have names?"

"That's Clotho," the woman announces, nodding at his horse. The horse bows her head once, lifting it again above the grey's. "Lachesis," she adds at Hartley's mare, "and Atropos," with a nod to Jesse's mare.

Hartley goes still as Jesse mounts her horse. "Oh," he says. "Isn't that a bit -- portentous?"

"They're nice names," Wally says, adjusting his foot in the stirrup. "What qualm do you have with them?"

Hartley lifts an eyebrow at him. "The Fates?" When Wally claims his own saddle, looking down at Hartley expectantly, the other man sighs and mirrors him. "Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos are the three Fates."

"Greek lesson on the road," Joe instructs. "Thank you..." After a beat, he admits, "Forgive me, I don't know your name."

The woman just smiles. "It's not important."

With an electric shiver, Jesse prompts, "Perhaps Joe's right. We should be off."

The mares look to the woman for a long moment, and then the woman nods once gracefully and the three horses walk.

"Chickens," Hartley mutters, shaking his head. "Dear God. Tell me I'm dreaming."

Wally walks alongside Jesse and smiles at her, almost knocking knees, they're so close. "You are a wonderful woman," he says again. "Though prone to violence?"

She flushes, though the rain hides it a good deal. "I feel I have incurred at least ten years of bad luck for that."

"I shall suffer with you, then," Wally promises.

"Chickens," Hartley repeats in a whisper to Joe, walking his mare next to Joe's stallion. " _Chickens._ "

 _We've assumed many forms,_ Clotho chimes in.

 _Crows. Those frighten people,_ Lachesis muses.

 _Dogs. We like being dogs. They feed us from their own tables,_ Atropos adds.

 _Humans, too,_ Clotho admits. _We don't like being humans, much. Not during this time._

"I've gone mad," Hartley determines dazedly. Lachesis snorts.

Jesse strokes Atropos' neck once. "I think you're magnificent," she assures.

The horse whickers, glancing back at her. She almost smiles.

 _Don't tell her that,_ Clotho warns ahead of her. _Her head is huge._

 _So is yours,_ Lachesis reminds, _and mine._

"Oh dear God, please stop talking," Hartley begs.

Lachesis rolls her eyes and bucks him, almost hard enough to unseat him, and he clutches her reins. _Talk less,_ she advises.

Miming lock-and-keying his mouth, Hartley pales but doesn't say a word.

* * *

"I find myself heavy-hearted these days," Ronnie admits. "My faith in him -- it does not waver. But so few petals..."

"Just two, now," Caitlin says quietly.

Ronnie inhales deeply. "I am sorry," he says sincerely.

Caitlin looks at up him. "What for?" she asks. "It's not your fault."

"No, but I wish I had married you sooner," Ronnie explains, turning to look at her. "Then at last I could be Ronnie Snow."

She laughs. "My parents would have a _fit_."

"I quite like it," he says. "Is your heart set on Caitlin Raymond?"

The clock leans against the wardrobe's leg. "My heart is set on you."

"And mine on you, ma chérie." Looking out the window at the end of the room, he frowns. "My eyes deceive," he murmurs.

Caitlin steps back, sidling over to the window and climbing up. "Oh," she says faintly, for the throng of humanity is unmistakable. "Company."

"Not a wedding party, either," Ronnie observes grimly, ambling ponderously towards her. "We must alert the master."

* * *

But high above, watching the mob gather near the edge of the castle grounds, The Beast already knows.

Pressing his paws to his eyes, he growls, frustration and anguish mingling.

 _Kill me if you must_ , he thinks, _but let my family live._

That's not how it works, though, and he knows it.

"Dearest?" his mother calls, hopping up alongside him. "Forgive me -- there are quite a few stairs."

"Mother," Barry says, heart in his throat. "I have failed you."

"Nonsense," his mother insists, sidling up beside him. "You have shown me the kind of man you are. And I could not be more proud of you."

"They've come for me," he says dully, waving a paw towards the people. "They now know of the monster in their midst, and they don't want it."

"You're not a monster," his mother says.

He flexes his paws, staring at his claws. "Aren't I?" he challenges, looking back at her. "Am I not exactly the Beast they thought?" Digging a paw into the fur at the back of his neck, he growls, "I could not even break the _spell_."

"There are still two petals," his mother assures softly.

He huffs humorlessly, standing to his full height and gently lifting her in his paws. "I love you," he tells her, looking her right in the eyes. "I love them. But I -- I do not think I can save you."

"It's all right, Barry," his mother says. "Remember, darling -- to try and fail, _that_ is noble. It takes so much heart."

"I will try," Barry assures solemnly, already leading them down the stairs as the mobs' shouts become faintly audible, a deathly chant with his name in its very chorus. "For you, I will always try."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:  
>  _Je t'aimerai toujours_ = I will always love you.  
>  _Ma chérie_ = My dear.
> 
> German:  
>  _Mein Baby, du musst mir helfen, mein Baby zu finden! = My baby, you have to help me find my baby._  
>  _Mein Baby_ = My baby.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourselves. It's time.

Suggested soundtrack: ["You Came Back."](https://youtu.be/RpmIuwg9jKw?t=1m49s)

* * *

_"Father!"_

_"Barry? What are you doing here?" King Henry tries and fails to sit up in the brush, bleeding mortally from his leg. "You shouldn't see this."_

_"I came to help," Barry says, barely able to speak, rushing forward. Tears form in his eyes at the sight. "You'll -- you'll be fine," he promises, tearing off part of his own shirt and tying it around his father's leg. "Please, just -- hang in there." He drags the man to his feet, wincing as his father howls in pain. "I'm sorry," he says, walking towards the castle three miles away. "I'm so -- I'm sorry."_

_"It's all right," his father gasps, leaning on him heavily, barely walking so much as being carried. "How did you find me?"_

_"I'm a good tracker," Barry says, stifling a sob as his father sags more against him. "Stay with me, stay with me. Please, I'll get you help as fast as I can."_

_"My dear son..." A cold hand clutches his own. "Listen to me."_

_Barry nods, tears dripping down his face. Hauling his father forward, he manages, "I'm listening."_

_"You have been my greatest joy."_

_"I always will be," Barry says fiercely, hitching him higher. "I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you."_

_His father squeezes his palm. "My dear boy, I have loved you. And I will miss you terribly."_

_And these are the last words his father ever speaks._

* * *

They come in droves, wielding guns and knives and even pitchforks.

Well-concealed, the three wolves watch them approach the castle and consult each other. " _Humans kill wolves,_ " _Rogue_ recites.

" _And wolves kill humans_ ," _Dent_ replies.

 _Griffe_ inhales. " _T_ _o fight them all could spell our demise._ "

" _To fail could spell The Beast's_ ," _Dent_ reminds.

 _Rouge_ paws the ground. " _If The Beast dies,_ " it asks, " _what becomes of us?_ "

 _Griffe_ shakes its head, looking between its siblings. " _We were never truly human,_ " it says, " _so that cannot be our sacrifice. We were nothing before we were dire wolves._ " Conclusively, it finishes, " _We shall be nothing after._ "

" _So we have nothing to lose,_ " _Dent_ surmises.

 _Griffe_ bows its head. _Rouge_ holds its silence.

At last, _Rouge_ says, " _They are only men. We have faced far worse._ "

As one, the three wolves stalk silently towards the mob.

* * *

Nearly two hundred people accompany the Captain to The Beast's castle.

Fewer than sixty make it to the gates.

There are only four fatalities, provocative people who do not yield to the wolves. The rest are driven off as sheep before dogs by charges and considerable but not lethal wounds. The humans' moans and cries and screams remind the wolves of the royals on the night of the curse, the people who fled before their snapping jaws and glowing red eyes.

The pandemonium stirs the mob into a frenzy. None of the wolves can locate the Captain, permitting the man to pass through. Occupied, the wolves deter his acquaintances.

* * *

Having slipped past the wolves' hold, the last fifty-five charge the castle.

The gates have not even been closed after _Belle's_ flight, nor the doors locked, but the final barrier between the mob and the castle proves to be more challenging than the mob anticipated. "This is a terrible idea," Dante hisses, planted firmly in front of the doors. "A single piano will not stop them!" They're already jockeying to remove him from his seat. The doors bow under the pressure.

"We need a plan," Caitlin agrees.

Cisco brandishes a long pin. "I have one!" Waving his pin like a conductor, he draws the small crowd of furniture closer. They're a formidable assortment: cutlery, candlesticks, teacups, tea trolleys, a pair of coat racks, a trio of shovels, a handful of mops, a chest, a grand piano, a feather-duster, a clock, and a bouncing footstool regard him. He instructs, "Form a circle around the room and stay very still! We will let them in _en masse._ On my signal, you will do your very worse!"

 _Houblon_ lunges joyfully for the doors. Cisco barks, " _Houblon_ , no! To your corner!"

Whining, the footstool slinks off. The rest of the furniture retreat and resume their still life poses. Dante stays at the door; Cisco waits with him. "I hope you are fleet-footed, brother," Cisco says. "You will need to move quickly!"

Dante sighs. "You wouldn't be my brother if this wasn't completely harebrained." With a deep breath, he waits until the next hard shove of humanity. Then, as they reel back for another attempt, the grand piano bolts to the side of the room as the candelabra flees.

They're just in time: the throng of people smash into the doors seconds after Dante abandons his post. Unlike the first nine attempts, the doors cave in magnificently on the tenth, and a dozen or more people spill into the room. Stifling a giggle at the sight, Cisco watches them pick themselves up and warily brandish weapons at the shadowy hall.

A familiar man in a red coat strides through the center of the crowd, proclaiming, "It's over, Beast! You will torment us no longer! Come out quietly and we will make your end quick!"

Cisco casts Caitlin a meaningful look across the hall. _I am really beginning to dislike this man._ Staying perfectly still, he watches the people fan out into the foyer. As the mob swells, Cisco realizes just how many targets they have, an almost infeasible number to be bested by a candelabra and a few pieces of furniture. But it's too late to turn back now. They must face this head-on or succumb at their own peril.

Unable to resist such a target-rich environment of potential friends, _Houblon_ breaks first and barks loudly as he charges into the center of the crowd.

It's as good a signal as any: Cisco barely needs to shout, " _ATTACK!_ " before the rest of the furniture jumps into the fray.

* * *

For his part, _Houblon_ is only seven pounds, but he's a powerful four-legged cannonball flying low to the ground, single-handedly tripping thirty-two unsuspecting people before they even know he's there.

Cisco thinks it's a record-setting performance, and resolves to submit _Houblon_ into the next athletic tournament he can find. The skill must be transferable somehow.

Then Cisco sets a man's breeches on fire at the ankle and loses track of everything except the immediate, the loud, and the pitchfork-wielding.

* * *

"What _abominations_ are these?" Ed roars, howling in pain when a fork stabs his calf. "Damn -- furniture!"

"This is not normal," another man pipes in, yowling when a coat rack strikes him hard on the head.

"I didn't sign up for this!" a woman cries, shrieking when a footstool takes her legs out from underneath her.

Plates fly, spoons dance, shovels pummel. Still the men and women resist. A grand piano charges and knocks three people to the ground in one go; a candelabra hops across the floor lighting anything flammable on fire; a wardrobe leaps from the upper story and lands with an earth-shaking crash in the middle of the crowd; a trolley teams up with a teapot to spray boiling hot water on anyone unfortunate enough to cross paths with it. Mops help clear up the floor-space, and before Al's dazzled eyes the men and women begin to retreat.

As soon as one breaks, seven follow. Without the Good Captain to command them, the tide of humanity doubles back, fleeing to the doors. Outside, the wolves continue to drive off anyone near them, howling terribly and snapping at skin. Refusing to be cowed so easily, Al shouts, "Where's Zolomon?"

Ed, bearing a black eye and slight limp, scowls menacingly. "Off to kill the damned thing. Before its furniture kill us!" he roars, slashing violently at a coat rack that dodges the swipe. "Come on!" he snaps fiercely at Al, waving an arm towards the stairs. "We'll light the place ablaze to kill the rest once the Beast is dead!"

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," a teapot says in a cool tone. Ed turns to look at her and the teapot sprays boiling water directly into his face. The man screams like a boar, tripping back over the footstool. A whack from a shovel knocks him unconscious.

Al yelps when the piano tramples him. Putting up his hands against it, he pants, "All right! All right. Easy now."

"You want to kill our master, do you not?" the piano challenges.

"To be frank," Al says, scarcely believing he's holding conversation with a _piano_ , "this is all a bit disarming."

"That's the point," the piano says, backing off. Al doesn't bother reach for a weapon, conscious of the candelabra near his ankle, lit candle uplifted threateningly.

"All right," Al says again, keeping his tone even. The room is surprisingly quiet -- it takes a long moment to realize that the crowd is gone, with only a few stragglers still trammeling across the front lawn -- and Al recognizes defeat. "I concede."

The furniture exhale; several applaud. "Do you speak for this man?" the candelabra asks, nodding at the unconscious Ed. Al nods slowly. "Splendid! Please leave now."

Drawing himself to his feet, Al sees an army of furniture ready to knock him senseless if he rescinds his words. "You must care an awful lot for this Beast," he mutters, lifting Ed in a fireman's carry. "Tell me -- why?"

"He is the master of the house," the candelabra says.

"And our friend," the clock finishes.

Walking towards the doors, Al abandons the castle and its talking furniture. He knows he is entering the wolf-pit to do so, but he feels relieved to leave, more so when he finally crosses the snow-line. Lying Ed down, he can still hear the screams, the sobs, and the cries of men and women as they flee, as far as they can, as fast as they can, from this terrible place. _It was a mistake to come,_ he thinks, and looks at the three wolves standing guard at the edge of the woods, their unity a powerful reminder of something neither he, nor Ed, nor anyone else can take.

"I'm sorry," Al tells them.

The middle wolf bares its teeth. The one to the left bows its head. On the right, the third commands, " _Do not come back._ "

Al nods, and the wolves retreat.

When Ed awakes, there will be the man's temper to contend with, his refusal to go quietly warring with common sense, but Al will break through to him, and together the two men will heed the wolf's message forever.

* * *

Hunter does not know, nor does he care, what happens to the people in the foyer.

All he knows is that they amply distract the furniture, long enough for him to escape up the staircase in pursuit of the monster himself. He charges up the stairs, gaining ground quickly. After a long, spiraling climb, he steps out onto a balcony and can't believe his luck when he glances up at the oblivious Beast just above him.

Turning back, Hunter climbs quietly and unshoulders his gun. At the top of the stairs, he levels it at the back of the creature. Finger on the trigger, he plants his feet firmly and states, "It is over, Beast."

The monster's head turns slightly but not all the way towards him, eyes still focused away. It irks Hunter more than he cares to admit. _I'm worth your damn attention._ " _I have no quarrel with you,_ " The Beast says.

Hunter scoffs, stepping towards him, gun trained on his shoulder, just behind his heart. It's almost a childishly easy shot. He won't miss, and the monster won't survive it. Still it does not move. "After you attacked me twice?"

The Beast exhales, turning back towards the castle grounds fully. In a low voice, he says, " _I don't want to fight you._ "

"Why do you even wish to live?" Hunter asks. When the monster does not respond, he re-trains his barrel on The Beast's right shoulder and fires. A bullet punches through and The Beast roars in pain, crumpling onto its side. "You are nothing but a monster."

" _I'm ... not ... a monster,_ " he gasps, struggling to his feet.

"You kidnapped some poor woman and convinced yourself she actually wanted to be in your company," Hunter sneers. "Where is she, Beast? Where is your beloved woman?"

The Beast lowers his head, breathing laboriously. " _Home,_ " he replies.

Hunter cocks his gun at The Beast's right leg and fires, but The Beast lurches just out of reach and the bullet sinks into stone. "Ah, you have some spirit," Hunter remarks, reloading. "What for?"

The Beast doesn't respond, lunging to its feet and throwing itself over the edge of the balcony.

Hunter rushes after it, staring at the monster clinging to the turret on the opposite side of the bridge. A dark red spot spreads across its shoulder. "Wouldn't you like a matching mark?" Hunter bellows. He fires at The Beast's paw just to make him lose his grip. Sliding down the tower, The Beast reclaims it after three stories, visibly struggling to even hold up his own weight. "Come, Beast, you make this so difficult for yourself," Hunter says, sauntering out onto the bridge, gun trained on the monster. "Still you cling to life! What life is this?"

The Beast climbs heavily around the tower and Hunter scowls, firing at his retreating back. He reloads, but now the monster is out of sight. With aggravated urgency, he charges across the bridge and leans over the balcony on the opposite side. Below, The Beast clings to the wall. "You think you can hide?" Hunter says, aiming his weapon.

The Beast looks up, and the bullet almost lands right between his eyes. But The Beast doesn't wait for Hunter to pull the trigger, lurching before the words have left his mouth and disappearing around the side. Hunter hears rapid movement and sees The Beast nearly fifty feet farther down. Angrily, he enters the tower and rushes down, down, down, shouting, "You can flee as far as you can fall, Beast, but even you cannot outrun my gun!"

To prove his point, he lurches out onto another walk and snaps off a brisk shot at the monster's heel. Roaring in pain and recognizing his predicament, The Beast lunges across the two towers once more, sinking his claws deep into the stone and hauling himself across the roof. Every movement is labored; it's clearly a struggle just to stay conscious, let alone to evade Hunter's sharp shooting. Hunter feels a warm bloom of satisfaction burn in his chest. "I can deliver you from your suffering," Hunter offers magnanimously. "Or I can extend it." He fires, not even close enough to touch The Beast, just enough to make him flinch back and lose his grip, sliding down farther. The struggle is almost pathetic, now, but he's always been fond of seeing beasts meet their demise eyes-open. They need to know who rules their world.

Still The Beast does not move to fight him, only flinches and cowers for all his bold posturing before. Annoyed, Hunter shouts, "Have you not an ounce of courage? A shred of wit? Or," he simpers, "do you think I will spare you? What holds you back, Beast?"

With an obvious effort, The Beast turns his head towards Hunter. He growls low, a deep, lion-like sound, and Hunter experiences a moment of actual fear as it leaps across the span and tackles him.

He fires and misses. Landing with a thunderous impact, The Beast lurches to his feet and seizes Hunter hard by the front of his shirt. A powerful swipe of his paw displaces Hunter's gun. The Beast lifts him clean off the ground. Hunter pummels him, fist and foot, but his grip is iron, unrelenting.

With a roar, The Beast throws Hunter hard across the floor. Stars shatter across Hunter's vision as his head hits the wall. " _I'm not ... your enemy,_ " The Beast growls. " _I will ... let you ... leave ... unimpeded._ "

"I came here for you," Hunter grinds out, dragging himself to his feet. "I'm not asking for your life; I'm taking it." The Beast snarls, low enough to reverberate in his bones. Despite his own courage, Hunter's heart skips a beat. Closing the gap between them, The Beast snatches the front of his shirt again and hauls him outside.

Dangling him over the abyss, The Beast announces in a terrible rumble, " _Not if I take yours first._ "

There's so little fear in those eyes that Hunter feels a little of his own creep in. But he can feel the tremble in the paw, the uncertainty in The Beast's rigid stance, and knows he can win this game.

With false desperation, he scrabbles at The Beast's paw. Snarl fixed, The Beast stares at him, but the longer Hunter gasps and holds his silence, the less certain those eyes become. "Please," Hunter begs. "I'll -- I'll do anything." Inflecting petrified shivers, he grasps at The Beast's paw with both hands. The Beast's eyes narrow, but the sympathetic glint there only becomes clearer in its hesitation. Hamming it up, Hunter whimpers, "I made a mistake."

The Beast's paw tightens. " _Yes_ ," he growls, lofting Hunter higher, " _a costly one_." Steaming, he loosens his grip.

Real panic creeps into Hunter's voice. "You don't want to do this," he says quickly. "What would the girl think?"

" _The girl's not here,_ " The Beast snaps. One finger lets go.

Hunter begs loudly, "Let me walk! Let me walk." Looking deep into those human eyes, Hunter reminds softly, "Unimpeded. That's what you want, isn't it? For me to leave. If -- if you kill me," he grimaces when another finger disappears, only three holding him up, "then others will come for you. But I can deter them. Surely if I could not stop you, who would even dare to try again?"

The Beast's lip curls in a deeper snarl. " _You tried to kill me._ "

"Because you were a _threat_ ," Hunter shouts, desperate and angry. "Have you even looked at yourself? You've terrified the village! Even now, they flee before you!" He hears the distant screams below, barely audible above his own pounding heart and The Beast's heavy breathing. "Listen to them, Beast. Listen! You think I am immune! We posture, but we're no match for you beasts! If I didn't try, who would I be, but a coward before a monster?"

" _I'm_ not _a monster!_ " The Beast roars, thrusting his fist out as far as it will go.

Hunter swallows hard and says nothing, staring at him. It's a gamble not to speak -- a terrible gamble, a life-threatening gamble -- but he sees the realization sink deep into The Beast's shoulders. Rain begins to fall, a fine mist. With each passing second, the tremble in The Beast's arm grows, breath laboring in his chest. At last, he reels Hunter back slowly, setting him down on the stone. Hunter exhales hard.

"Thank you," he says, and The Beast releases his grip on Hunter's shirt. "Oh, thank you, Beast." Reassuringly, he promises, "No one -- _no one_ \-- will come for you once I have given them my word. You will be free to live here for the rest of your days in peace. All we ask -- all we can ask, Beast -- is that you leave us alone, forever."

A low growl is his only response for a long moment. " _You will take care of them?_ " he asks, and it nearly breaks Hunter's conciliatory act. _So trusting, so stupid._

Bowing his head, he promises, "With my very life. It is all I have done here. I -- I became entranced in the moment, I said things I should not have. I -- I'm sorry."

The Beast lowers his own head. His eyes are glazed with pain. In his current state, it's almost unfair how easy he is to manipulate. " _I forgive you_ ," he says slowly. " _But I ask the same courtesy. I will allow you to live the rest of your days in peace, as long as you leave, and never come back._ "

Hunter presses a hand to his chest and bows. "Of course," he says, laying on the earnestness. "It would give me great joy never to cross paths with you again, Beast. Truthfully, I was spurred on by my love -- love for the woman I heard was in your captivity. I feared for her life and reacted with all due recourse. When she returned, she was so glad to see me, and I so earnest to repay her trauma. A lover scorned makes terrible choices."

All the fight seems to drop out of The Beast's shoulders. He smiles like he has a broken tooth. " _..._ _So you are ... involved with her._ "

Hunter straightens his shoulder and says with absolute conviction, "We are engaged to be married."

The Beast sinks down onto his haunches. He is eye level with Hunter, searching for dishonesty, but Hunter's steely-eyed confidence does not fail him. " _I see_ ," The Beast says at last, straightening to his full eight-feet. " _I see,_ " he repeats, and there is something deeper than pain in his voice, something like anguish. _Did you actually fall in love with her?_ Hunter thinks, stifling a bray of laughter at the thought of such a monster even entertaining the notion that Iris could love him. _You are both trusting and foolish._

Without warning, a voice cries, " _Barry!_ "

Both Hunter and The Beast jerk towards the sound, for its source is unmistakable, and standing upon a balcony on the opposite tower is the woman herself. " _Iris_ ," The Beast shouts, his breaking heart plain in his voice as he leaves Hunter behind, scrambling down the side of his own tower before lunging onto a bridge. Every step is slow and painful, ghastly so. He doesn't even pause to look back at Hunter as he struggles towards her.

But Hunter doesn't care, scarcely looks away as he reclaims his gun, quietly reloads it, and even more silently aims it at the back of the monster's left shoulder.

He waits until The Beast has both paws on the balcony where Iris stands, hauling himself over the edge, saying something Hunter cannot and needn't here, for the rapport of his gun is tremendous, and the bullet tears through the Beast's heart with a crack. Roaring in agony, The Beast falls forward, scrabbling for purchase on the wall but still alive, damn him. Reloading, Hunter steps forward and shouts, "No one could ever love a Beast!"

Then he fires again, and the adrenaline, the rapport, the crackle of real thunder startles him so that he missteps, a terrible plunging fear sinking into his chest as the ground gives way to mortal air, his breath stolen as he plummets one-hundred-and-forty-nine-feet to stone-cold Earth.

No one, not even the Distinguished Captain Hunter Zolomon, could survive such a fall.

And indeed, he does not.

* * *

It takes every ounce of Iris' strength just to hold onto Barry. He claws weakly for purchase at the wall, dragging himself over it with a terrible effort. "That's it," she encourages, pulling on his shoulders. He rolls onto the floor, bleeding profusely.

Barry gasps, " _You -- you came back._ "

Iris cups his face. "Of course I did," she whispers. His head lolls back; he shakes, bleeding out over the marble. "Oh, Barry," she says. "You'll be all right, we can -- we can fix this. All we need is a petal. We--" Crying, she insists, "I'll get you a petal, all right? I'll get you one."

" _Don't--_ " Coughing, Barry whispers, " _Don't go._ "

"I'll be right back," Iris promises, rising. A heavy, anguished paw curls around her hand.

" _Iris..."_

Sinking back to her knees, Iris strokes his cheek. "If I get you a petal," she tells him, "it will save your life."

" _And it will -- it will damn them all,_ " Barry gasps.

Frowning, Iris asks with tears in her eyes, "What do you mean?"

He shakes his head slowly, soft as the rain around them. " _I'm sorry ..._ "

"I don't understand," she cries, tears streaking down her face. "A petal will save you. It won't hurt them."

" _There's only one left._ " Reaching up with a paw, he presses it to his heart, his bleeding heart, and rasps, " _It fell -- it fell -- it fell when he shot me. There's only -- there's only one left, Iris, one -- left._ " He closes his eyes and Iris gives him a shake, a little harder when he doesn't open his eyes right away. " _I'm sorry..._ " he repeats.

"Don't be," Iris says. His paws wrap so gently around her elbows it nearly breaks her heart. "Please, Barry, you're -- you're stronger than this, we can overcome this."

Shaking his head again, Barry promises in a heavy gasp, " _The ... the man, he -- I know why you couldn't ... why the curse didn't break..._ "

"What are you talking about?" she whispers, stroking his face. "What man?"

" _The ... the man in the red coat._ "

"The Captain?" When Barry nods, Iris says fiercely, "He is nothing to me." He tilts his head into her palm and she insists, "He's less than nothing to me. He's a liar, and a -- a terrible man." She cannot bring herself to say _murderer_. She won't.

Barry exhales deeply. " _The castle will go still,_ " he says with great effort. " _Take -- take whatever you like, all the books, any furniture.... The castle will go still, but it is yours._ "

Shaking her head, Iris leans closer and begs, "No, Barry, you can't -- you can't go. We'll fix this. Together, we'll find a way to break the spell, we'll fix this all."

" _The library ... the ballroom._ " His lips twitch towards a smile. " _Please ... please do not ... suffer for us. We have ... been so lucky ... to have you._ " His paws drop. She tries to hold onto them, but there's almost nothing to resist. His grip is utterly limp. She lets them fall and cups his face again. " _You have been ... the most wonderful thing ... to ever happen to me._ "

Her tears drip onto his fur. "Barry," she pleads. "I don't care if you're a Beast forever, we'll -- we'll figure this out. If I take the last petal, it will save your life."

" _No_." His ferocity startles her, but his voice is firm as he explains, " _Iris, I forbid it, I won't -- I won't live if it means they'll all die._ "

She presses her forehead against his and tries not to sob. "Why did you have to save the wolves?" she whispers. "Now I have nothing to save you."

He says nothing, nothing for so long it hurts, and then he murmurs a single word: " _Agápe_." She sits up and looks at him, frowning in confusion. With great difficulty, he murmurs, " _Éros. Philía. Storgē._ " Blinking, he looks right at her and smiles.

It clicks. "'The Greeks had four words for it.'"

Nodding once, Barry finishes, " _Love._ "

* * *

Watching her through blurry eyes, a pain so huge it is almost painless occluding everything he is, Barry finds himself at ease even as the last petal breaks away and falls.

 _Now I know she'll never leave me,_ he thinks, smiling faintly at her, one-last-time, his vision going dark. _E_ _ven as she fades from view..._

For the life he did not live better, he makes his last words count: "I love you, Iris."

And then his breath ceases, his heart ceases, and his very life ends in her arms.

* * *

In the foyer, beyond The Beast's sight, a clock chimes midnight, one last time. "I ... I'm becoming ... stiff," Caitlin admits.

Defeated, the candelabra announces, "The last petal has fallen."

The feather-duster floats down from the ceiling. "Oh, my darling," she whispers, hugging Cisco.

Cisco's candles dim and go out. Hugging her back, he says, "I wish we had more time."

"Cisco," the piano gasps, staggering towards him. "I'm sorry. You never -- you never would have -- come here, had it not -- been for me."

Letting go of his feather-duster, Cisco turns to Dante. Even the simple movement is taxing. "You gave me a better life," he insists. "You gave me the best possible life."

In acknowledgement, the grand piano plays one last chord, sad and short, before it falls silent.

* * *

Staggering away, the clock reaches the wardrobe still perched at the base of the stairs. "Ronnie," she whispers. "Oh, Ronnie, I -- I love you."

"And I -- you, _ma chérie_ ," Ronnie manages, stilling before he can accept even a final hug from her.

Sobbing, Caitlin squeezes one of his frozen legs.

* * *

In the center of the room, _Houblon_ whines anxiously. 

" _Houblon_ ," Cisco says. "It's all right, my friend." Hobbling towards him, he hugs the footstool and reassures, "It's all right." Then _Houblon_ goes still, for the first and last time in his life.

The coat racks, the trolleys, the shovels, the spoons -- every servant in the room falls still and silent, one-by-one, until only the feather-duster, the clock, and the candelabra remain.

* * *

Hopping up the stairs, a teapot begs, "Barry?" for she heard the terrible noise, the deathly fire and dying roars, and can only worry as she rushes towards him. "Barry?" she repeats, even as her movements become slow and heavy, impossible at the next step, agonizingly close and still too far. Sobbing, she pleads, "My son, my beautiful boy, where are you?" She hops one last step, and then the next is simply too far, and she weeps until she becomes still and silent, too.

She is just nine steps away from him.

* * *

Hugging his feather-duster tightly, Cisco says fiercely, "Don't leave me, _mon amour._ "

"I won't ever leave you," Cindy reassures, even as she, too, becomes stiff. "Wherever you go, I will follow."

Sobbing, Cisco begs, "Don't leave me."

Cindy squeezes him tightly, one last time, and releases him, drifting to the floor, unmoving.

* * *

In the woods, three wolves huddle as the storm closes in on them, _Dent's_ snout on _Griffe's_ back, _Rouge's_ head over _Griffe's_. " _Goodbye,_ " _Rouge_ tells them, the last of them aware, before it, too, closes its eyes. " _Goodbye, my siblings._ "

* * *

Outside the castle grounds, Atropos comes to a dead halt. Nothing Jesse does will make her take a step closer to the snow-line. "We must go," Jesse reminds her.

But Lachesis, also at a halt, says simply, _It is over._

Hartley swallows hard. Joe dismounts his horse, and Wally follows suit. Without a word, the two of them cross the snow-line, leaving their companions behind.

* * *

Dull with pain, anesthetized with grief, Cisco turns to regard Caitlin, first of his friends, last of his friends, and admits, "I thought ... I thought..."

Caitlin sidles forward. He meets her halfway, hugging her. "I'm sorry," he says. "I -- I was wrong."

"You were brave," Caitlin replies with profound effort. "You were kind. In the face of dire odds ... you still had hope."

With a smile, she steps back and moves no more.

* * *

Tilting his head skyward, Cisco closes his eyes and finds -- somewhere deep in his heart -- a mirroring smile.

"What an adventure," he murmurs, thinking of them and all the beautiful things: _Houblon_ chasing the mops, their beloved Queen singing, Barry and Iris laughing in the snow, Caitlin bantering with him, Dante performing, Ronnie breaking down doors, his beloved Cindy existing.

He thinks of where he wanted to be, what he hoped to do, and realizes something reassuring.

_I have lived a beautiful life, a full life, a wonderful life._

Extending his arms, he smiles rapturously, full of more hope than he ever had any right to, more love than he could extend, and quietly fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:  
>  _Ma chérie_ = My darling.  
>  _Mon amour_ = My love.  
>  _Houblon_ = Hops.  
>  _Rouge_ = Red.  
>  _Dent_ = Tooth.  
>  _Griffe_ = Claw.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, we have reached our pen-penultimate chapter. This fic should have 20 chapters altogether. This one is short, and I apologize for that, but it seems fitting to open on a "short chapter" note, and end on a "short chapter" note.
> 
> It has been such a pleasure to write this story for you. I look forward to our last two sojourns to wrap up this wonderful journey.
> 
> Enjoy.

Cradling The Beast's unmoving head between her hands, Iris presses her forehead to his and whispers, "Come back."

Pleading with him, she insists, "Don't leave me." A tear drips onto his cheek. "I -- _I love you_."

As though on cue, a bright yellow star shatters like a sunflower against the cool marble floor. Iris stares in amazement as sparks dance away from the disintegrating light. Before she can process it, a second star falls, and a third, and fourth, until they're raining down upon them by the dozen. Rising, Iris steps away from Barry, and the shower continues unabated. Silver streaks pierce The Beast without leaving behind a mark.

Then his chest rises, and hope swells in Iris' chest. Before her disbelieving eyes, his feet begin to rise, too. Though disappointment attempts to crush her joy -- for it is the process of being lifted upward that causes the seemingly lifelike movement -- she cannot find room for it as she watches the scene unfold. By no visible orchestrator, he is raised fully into the air, nearly standing height. His eyes remain closed, his body limp.

But before her amazed eyes, he transforms.

Golden stars strike his forepaws, and long, killer claws retreat to stout human fingernails. The supernatural arch of his heels flattens and shrinks. The tail vanishes. He disappears in the light, so bright Iris is forced to shield her own eyes. When it dims, she looks over, and beholds the prince, held in its grasp, for the very first time. Before she can even begin to process it, either, the invisible force lowers him to the floor. Around them, the meteor shower ceases.

An aching, overwhelming sort of anguish creeps over Iris. _I broke the curse,_ she realizes, stepping towards him, he and his unmoving chest, he and his unseeing eyes, _but it was too late._ Crouching beside him -- regal and sad in his cold, royal blues -- she presses a hand to her mouth and closes her eyes. "Please," she begs, but he does not move.

"I believe," a woman says, and Iris turns slowly to face her, "I can help."

Astonished, Iris asks, "Linda? What are you doing here?"

The crow perched on Linda's shoulder ruffles its feathers and looks right at her. _We're here to help_ , it says.

Reaching back into her satchel, Linda produces a single brilliant white rose. "I cursed him," she admits. "I was the woman he turned away that night." Stroking the petals of the rose, she murmurs, almost to herself, "It's a trick I've done before." Then, looking at Iris, she adds, "Sometimes it is necessary to teach someone a lesson in a powerful way."

 _A powerful way_ , the crow agrees.

Twirling the white rose, Linda goes on, "Witches have an ... eccentric reputation. Few understand us. Fewer understand our works."

 _Great works,_ the crow adds. _Powerful works._

"I'm not all-powerful," Linda explains. "What I take, I must give back." Stilling the rose, she says, "I have spent hundreds of years tending the bush that this one came from. It is the only white rose I have ever grown." Looking right at Iris, she says, "These enchanted roses are of the Earth, and for the Earth. They can be used to repay almost any debt."

The crow bobs its head. _Any debt._

Iris stares at them. "You mean to say ... it can save him?"

"It can do an incredible number of things," Linda says. "But yes. It can save him." Holding it out, she prompts, "To bring back his life, you must have something to offer of equal worth."

Iris steps forward. When neither crow nor woman deters her from reaching out, she closes her fingers carefully around the stem and brings it to her chest. Turning around, she puts her back to Linda and walks over to Barry's side. Kneeling next to him, she cradles the rose to her face and closes her eyes. Opening them, she lowers it to his chest, and takes one of those cold, human hands and folds it over the stem.

Like a man laid to rest, he holds the rose over his heart, eyes closed, chest unmoving. She waits, and waits, and waits, and still nothing happens. "Why isn't it working?" she whispers.

The crow contributes, _You must say the words._

"What words?" Iris asks.

" _By the laws of the Earth, the land, and mighty sea,_ " Linda recites, " _I break the age-old confinements placed upon him, and grant him a new life_."

"I'm no enchantress," Iris explains. "Surely it won't work."

The crow and woman simply look at her expectantly.

Reaching gently for his hand, Iris rests hers on top of his and chants, " _By the laws of the Earth, the land, and mighty sea,_ _I break the age-old confinements placed upon him._ " Squeezing his hand, she finishes, " _And grant him a new life._ "

Warmth pools outward from the rose, soft as snowfall, persistent as rain. Iris holds her breath, and then the hand beneath hers twitches. It's barely a movement at all, but it's _movement,_ and his chest begins to slowly rise, and slowly fall. "Barry?" she asks, squeezing his hand, and with almost excruciating care he turns his hand over and squeezes hers back.

"Iris," he breathes, eyelids fluttering for a moment before he opens them, looking up at her with bright green-blue eyes. A smile spreads across his lips. She can feel his heart beating under her palm. " _Iris_."

She throws herself at him, hugging him tightly, and the rose seems to fades between them like the stars, his hand sliding back to hold her. "You're alive," she whispers, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

"Improbably," he agrees, "yes."

She leans up and takes both of his hands, pulling him up to a seated position. Tears in her eyes, she kneels across from him and just looks at him for a moment, amazed. "You're -- you're actually quite handsome," she remarks stupidly, reaching up to curve a hand to his cheek, feeling his smile broaden. "Among other things."

"My good looks are my superior quality," he says, and she half-wants to punch him for his absurdity, and finds herself leaning forward to kiss him instead.

It is warm and sweet and more than she dares to ask for, more than a provincial girl like she dares to claim, but he does not cast her aside. Rather, he kisses her back, a hand resting modestly at her waist as she wraps both arms around his neck. "For the record," he murmurs, breaking away, "you've always been quite beautiful."

She gives him the smallest of playful shoves and he pushes himself to his feet. Holding out a hand to her, he draws her upright with effortless ease. Iris looks around, but neither witch nor crow are present anymore.

Before she can wonder long, a familiar voice shouts, "Incoming!" and that is all the warning they receive before [a sixty-pound bull terrier](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f3/Bull_Terrier_white_sitting.jpg) comes charging up the stairs.

Without missing a beat, Barry pats his chest with both hands and _Houblon_ leaps for him, nearly tackling him. "My wonderful beast!" he declares, rubbing the dog's head with both hands. Whining with joy, _Houblon_ licks his face.

Iris smiles when the dog turns its affections on her. "Be gentle with the lady!" Barry reminds, but _Houblon_ just circles around her, 'round and 'round, before decisively pushing his head against her palm. She pets his head; _Houblon's_ tail thwacks against Barry's leg. "He's never civil," Barry apologizes. "My parents tried to teach him manners, but--"

Whatever train of thought he has disperses as he looks at the woman standing in the threshold. "Mother," he breathes, rushing towards her. Iris smiles as she watches the prince halt just before the queen. His hands twitch at his side, but he hesitates to reach for her. Undeterred, she closes the gap between them and hugs him tightly. He buries his face against her shoulder and Iris kneels next to _Houblon_ , giving Barry space.

From far below, Iris hears laughter in the great hall. Burying her smile against _Houblon's_ coat, she dares to look up at Barry. He's nodding to something his mother is saying, but then he turns to her and straightens his blue coat. Smiling shyly, he steps forward and Iris rises. "I believe it is past time I introduce you to my family," he says, holding out an arm to her.

"I believe it is," Iris agrees, linking arms with him.

Together, they walk down the stairs, and rejoin the land of the living.

* * *

Deep in the forest, a red-eyed dire wolf rises to its feet. Its siblings stir underneath it. They stand and shake out their fur, looking at each other and the melting snows around them. " _Summer,_ " _Griffe_ murmurs.

 _Dent_ noses the grass, a mimicry of a smile curling its lips. " _Summer_ ," it agrees.

 _Rouge_ asks, "Might we ...?" Looking towards the former snow-line, mere feet away, it walks forward. Carefully -- half-expecting its heart to stop -- _Rouge_ leans forward and takes a single step beyond the edge.

Its paw lands gently in the grass, and the next step comes just as easily. Turning back to regard its siblings, it bows its head invitingly. _Dent_ follows first, bumping _Rouge's_ shoulder in passing before continuing its walk. _Griffe_ lingers on the other side, looking over its shoulder at the unseen castle.

" _Goodbye,_ " it says simply before joining its siblings.

Then the dire wolves run far, far away, and never return.

Their life is long, and simple, and beautiful.

* * *

"Mademoiselle, it is an honor, an absolute pri-vi-lege, to finally meet you in person!" Cisco says, standing in the foyer and shaking Iris' hand enthusiastically. "I am scarcely worthy to stand before you!" He steps back and bows, but Iris shakes her own head and steps forward.

"My friend," she says, drawing him up by the shoulders and holding him level for a moment. "It is good to see you again."

"I am so happy to be human again," Dante announces, walking over to shake his prince's hand. "Good work, my prince."

"It certainly is nice to be able to walk again," Caitlin muses. Iris steps away so she might hug the other woman, who looks surprised and vaguely pleased to be treated so. "Credit where credit is due, I should be thanking _you_."

"She is a _marvel,_ " Cisco effuses. "The most wonderful woman in the world!"

"Careful," Cindy says, sashaying closer. "Or I might think I was being replaced."

Cisco spins on his heels and rushes up to her, hugging her. "My fine feather!" he cries. "My darling future wife!"

"My darling candelabra," Cindy replies, swaying with him. "How I missed your embrace."

"It is nice not to worry about setting anything on fire!" Cisco admits jubilantly.

Barry huffs a laugh, and Iris turns to him, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. At the prince's side, a man of nearly equal height murmurs something and smiles. Barry clasps his shoulder before letting him go. Stepping towards Iris, still bedecked in her golden yellow dress, Barry transcribes softly, "Ronnie is very grateful you have brought his beloved back to him."

Caitlin walks across the floor towards Ronnie and embraces him. Neither says a word. There is something lovely in its simplicity, something tender in the way Cindy and Cisco dance, something irreplaceable in the soft, regal smile the Queen has while _Houblon_ sits at her side, tail wagging.

"Happy to," Iris says simply.

"Iris," a familiar voice shouts. Iris' heart skips a beat as her father presses open the castle doors. "Oh, my daughter," he breathes, rushing towards her and embracing her. "I feared the worst had happened to you."

"Papa," she says, hugging him back tightly. "I'm so happy to see you. How did you -- _why_ did you--?"

"You thought I would not return?" her father asks, disbelieving. "What man would I be if I did not?"

"A longer-lived one, probably," Wally chimes in, stepping up to their side. "But a less noble father."

Her father huffs and lets her go to throw an arm around Wally's shoulder and shake him. "My boy," he says, "I dare say you grow on me."

Wally makes a falsely disgusted noise. "And here I have done so well until now at avoiding a father."

Iris smiles. Her father releases Wally and looks over her shoulder. Following his gaze, Iris sees Barry duck his head slightly. Her father steps forward and clears his throat, and Barry meets his eyes. Slowly, carefully, her father says, "You are The Beast, then."

Barry nods.

Poking a finger at his chest, her father warns, "Kidnap me again and I will shoot you."

"I do not foresee any kidnappings in my future," Barry assures, cheeks flushing. "It was -- a misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding."

"An egregious oversight," Barry corrects solemnly.

Her father clasps his shoulder, looking him in the eye. Barry's posture tenses expectantly. Then her father announces, "My daughter has a great deal of affection for you." Releasing Barry's shoulder, he holds out a hand to shake. "I would like to know the man who has won her esteem."

Slowly, Barry takes her father's hand and shakes it. "I would like to know the man who raised her," he replies simply, releasing it. He looks over at her and dares the smallest of smiles.

Her father steps back, and Iris takes Barry's arm. "Permit me a walk," she says.

He bows his head in acknowledgment. As they waltz away, no one stops them.

* * *

They venture away, away from the laughter, the reunions, the bright hall and its bright guests.

In passing, Volo whickers but does not retreat from Barry. Barry smiles at the white mare. "No longer afraid of me, I see," he remarks. Iris squeezes his arm and says nothing.

Farther out they go, until they cannot even hear the suggestion of a castle conversation, until their world encompasses only two people.

Thoroughly ensconced in the trees and summer light, Barry finds steady enough footing to speak. "I died," he begins, still reeling. "Yet ... here I am. With you." Looking down at himself, he adds, "Decidedly human." Iris nods. When she offers nothing more, he prompts, "How did you accomplish that? I doubt I was much help."

"You weren't," Iris admits freely. He huffs another small laugh. Drawing him to a halt, she asks, "What do you remember?"

He grimaces and rubs his chest, just over his heart. "Pain," he admits. "Terrible pain. And then -- you were -- you were there. You came back." He blinks, opening and closing his mouth, at a loss for words.

Iris steps in, wrapping her arms around his waist and holding him in place. "Of course I did," she says softly, and he loves the way her hands feel against him, how lovely it is to stand so close to her, how overwhelming it is to simply be _human_ again. "I had to."

"You didn't have to," he reminds her. "That's the inexplicable thing about it. You do things most people wouldn't, and things you didn't have to, for ... reasons I can't fathom."

"Barry Allen," she says. A shiver electrifies his spine; he is sure she can feel it. His heart beats very quickly, making up for lost time. "Why did you run to me?"

Barry doesn't need to ask on what occasions. He remembers them: half-deaf with fear, he rushed out across the snow to face the wolves; half-blind with pain, he struggled across the rooftops, bleeding fatally. "I -- I had to," he echoes.

She slides her hands from his waist to his face, framing it. "I love you," she says simply. "I acted out of that love." Stroking her thumbs over his cheekbones, she insists, "I would do it all again, if it lead me to you."

He cannot resist her, and so he must kiss her, cradling her jaw in his hands. After an interminable time, they pull back just far enough to rest forehead-to-forehead. Eyes closed, he can't see if she smiles, but he can feel his own lips curve into one. "You're a remarkable woman," he whispers. "And I will do everything I can to deserve your love."

"You gave up your life for the chance to save them," Iris murmurs, so close he can feel her breath on his lips. "I asked you -- I begged you to let me use the last petal to save your own life, but you refused."

He breathes in and out deeply. "They deserved more than the selfish prince who imprisoned them forever," he says. "What I did was little and late."

"If you hadn't done it," Iris insists, "there would have been no way to save them. There would have been no way to reverse the curse." Stroking his face one last time, she lets go and leans back. He mirrors her, looking at her. There are tears in her eyes. "I could have saved you, and doomed them, or saved them, and doomed you."

"You made the right choice," he promises. "I would have it no other way."

"The witch," she says slowly, frowning in vague bewilderment, "I know her."

Barry blinks. "You -- do?" he asks, feeling full-stopped. "How?"

"She's a villager. She raises chickens," Iris explains. "Well. Three chickens. That's all she can afford, and they were charity. Scruffy little things when she first found them. Now they're beautiful."

Barry shakes his head in wonder. "You would know the woman who crossed my life so unfortunately," he muses. "What's she like, underneath the doom and gloom?"

"Quite pleasant, actually. She saved your life. Well. She gave me a way to save your life." Sighing in mock regret, she admits, "I could have acquired a unicorn, but I used my one wish on you."

"You definitely should have gotten the unicorn," Barry says gravely. "How will your hundred-year-old self live with such a missed opportunity?"

Iris slings an arm around his back, and he slides one around her waist. "If I live to be one hundred," she says, "I'll raise my own enchanted rosebush and use one to conjure an entire stable."

Frowning, Barry stares at her. When Iris doesn't break, he admits, "I can't tell if you're being serious."

"Linda said it could do anything," Iris says. "Unicorns scarcely seem out of the question."

"Linda," Barry repeats, trying out the name. "That's deceptively innocent."

Iris takes the lapels of his coat and smooths them down. "As is Bartholomew."

He scrunches up his nose. "Please," he entreats, closing his eyes, "please call me Barry."

She leans up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his cheek. "Not _Prince_ Barry?"

He sighs, cradling the back of her head in one hand. "What am I going to do with you?"

She smiles and slips out of his grip. "Catch me if you can," she says simply, and takes off, full tilt, astoundingly fast.

With a playful growl, he gives chase, shouting, "That's not very ladylike!"

"What a wonderful day not to be a lady!"

He laughs, and it feels light, for the first time in years.

* * *

"That was very kind of you to help," Jesse tells the returning Atropos, hugging the black mare's neck.

 _We're obedient to our positions,_ Atropos replies, pressing her snout against Jesse. _Not heartless to petitions._

 _When the living are called back to the Earth,_ Lachesis adds, _it is usually our place to guide, not interfere._

 _But sometimes interfering can be fun,_ Clotho admits.

Sitting by a tree, Hartley keeps his head in his hands. "Why," he begs, "must _everything_ talk?"

Lachesis huffs. _Why must you?_

Jesse smiles. "I like her."

Hartley sighs and brushes a hand down his face. "I like warm beds and the ends of adventures."

"Both are in sight," Jesse assures. "You need wait but a moment longer."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate! What a wonderful place to be. I have but one more place to take you before we close this story. I hope you enjoy.

"Could it be?" a man murmurs, setting down his basket of wares and looking to the man at the edge of the woods. "The prince returns."

"I thought he died?" a woman rejoins, attending her cut arm with a salve, not looking up.

"Months ago," another woman agrees, abandoning her basket to frown at the sight. "Back in January, he caught plague. His whole castle was quarantined, and then ... that _monster_ moved in." Shaking her head, she says, "Surely it's not him?"

Astride a black mare, the prince's royal blues are unmistakable. Stepping forward, the first man insists, "It's him."

"He brings disease to our village?" another man frets.

"He does not look sick," the second woman replies. "The plague kills quickly, or not at all." Then, without heat, she reminds, "Besides, we dwelt in his place. If it was poisoned, then we've all been exposed it. There is no point to run from a fleck more."

Finally, the first woman looks up and stares. "Gods be good," she breathes. "It's _him_."

Cresting the final hill, the prince, attended by a woman on a white mare, canters down them. He moves alone towards the town, leaving behind his companion, and a small group besides.

The villagers stop to look at the newcomer, gawking at the sight of their forgotten monarch. "What a wonderful day to see you, my prince!" a man cries, holding his dark hat aloft. Others echo the man's sentiment, and soon the whole village is alive with inquiries and jubilant greetings. People crowd his horse, but the black mare does not balk.

Without a word, the prince walks his animal to the center of town before bringing her to a halt. Clearing his throat, he announces, "The Beast is dead."

Relieved cheers intermingle with applause, hats flung into the air as the victory spreads. Amid the celebration, the prince quietly produces a red cut of fabric and holds it up high for inspection. The crowd quiets; one could hear a pin drop in the ensuing silence. "Your Captain," he says, "killed it." No one cheers. An almost palpable shock seems to pass through the crowd.

A man steps forward and nearly seizes the reins of the prince's horse to ask, "Where is he? Where's Captain Zolomon?"

"Ed," a second man warns, but the first merely looks up at the prince expectantly.

The prince lowers his hand, offering the cloth to him. The first man stares at it, shaking his head slowly. Then he takes the offering and groans. "Oh, my friend," he says in a low voice, tears trickling down his face. "You were taken too young."

"Come along, Ed," the other man encourages, taking him by the shoulder and drawing him away. "Come along."

Gathering himself, the prince looks at the crowd, meeting their eyes before he regards the whole group. "It is my deep sorrow to report the Captain has died," he says at last.

A woman bursts into tears. Astonished murmurs spread through the crowd. Dismounting his horse, the prince draws silence once again, the only sounds that of the weeping woman. Towering above average at over six feet tall, the prince commands easy focus. "I will personally see to it that his body is brought back via carriage a proper resting place," he announces. "Whatever his later vices in life ... the Captain deserves as much."

"What happened to him?" a second woman begs, holding the shoulders of her inconsolable friend. "Did he suffer?"

"Of course he did," a man spits, furious and upset. "The Beast killed him."

"No." When they stare, the prince steps forward and explains, "Ill luck killed him." In a smooth, narrative tone, he says, "He fired at the monster, and the shot was true. The Beast died, but the Captain -- the balcony where he stood broke off. He fell a hundred or more feet. He was..." Clearing his throat, seemingly overcome with emotion, the prince finishes, "Unrevivable, when I found him."

The weeping woman wails. Stepping through the parting crowd towards them, the prince speaks softly, to-her-alone. "Weep not for the man who dies doing what he loved," he encourages. "For he has lived a fulfilling life." He fishes in a pocket and produces a fresh handkerchief, passing it to the woman and permitting her to step forward and hug him, sobbing into his shoulder.

"We will host a magnificent funeral," agrees the man accompanying Ed. Ed himself looks shell-shocked, staring at the scrap of the captain's clothing with teary eyes. "One fit for a king. He will be sent to his next life handsomely."

The prince says nothing, squeezing the woman gently before releasing her. She steps back into the crowd and they part more around him, forming a circle. "I have been away," the prince professes, "and a monster has ruled my castle in my absence." He turns slowly, looking into the eyes of different people. "A monster who instilled great fear in all of you." He produces a mirror from his coat and looks at it for a long moment, unblinking.

Then he lifts it, and they recoil at the sight of The Beast. He holds the mirror up to his own face, occluding his visage, and they gasp in fear. "The unknown frightens us," he says slowly, lowering the glass until they are forced to look into his own blue-green eyes instead, irreconcilably similar, "the unknown entrances us. Perhaps the only proper response to the unknown is somewhere in-between." Twirling the mirror once, he looks down at the silver thoughtfully. "A little fear keeps us from venturing blindly into the wolf's den," he explains, "too much fear keeps us from acknowledging the wolves' presence at all."

Looking up, he says, "There are wolves in the woods. If we go to them, then we must choose how we leave our mark upon them."

Drawing in a deep breath, he drops his voice to a preternatural rumble and confesses, " _I was The Beast._ " The silence is paralyzing; even with the evidence before them, no one seems capable of reconciling the two truths. " _The Captain made his choice,_ " the prince begins. Retrieving a sword from his belt, the prince commands, " _Make yours._ "

He tosses the sword onto the cobbles before himself and takes a knee, bowing his head.

No one moves; no one even seems to breathe. Ed steps forward, but even he halts, staring at the kneeling man and retreating back into the crowd. Others shuffle; a few reach for the sword. But no one takes up the offer, no matter how close they come. The prince makes no petition for his own life, breathing in and out slowly.

"Death is simple," he says at last. "It absolves us of our worldly debts. No longer must we confront what we have done." He rises, but the crowd does not mob, does not dismantle him. Looking at them, he acknowledges simply, "I have wronged you -- all of you -- over these last four years, and it was my callousness and cruelty that turned me into a monster." He picks up the mirror and holds up its beastly visage again. No one flinches this time.

As they watch, The Beast disappears. The prince lowers the mirror. "I wish to right my wrongs, to the greatest extent that I am capable. In some cases," he admits, "I can only ask your forgiveness."

"You would have the Captain returned to us," a man observes, "even though -- by your own admission -- he killed you."

The prince nods once.

Slowly, the man accompanying Ed steps forward. He does not speak, and wields considerable bulk against the prince's lean frame, but the prince does not flinch from him. Halting in front of him, the man introduces, "Al Rothstein." He holds out a hand and the prince shakes it firmly. "Permit me to help bring the Captain back."

The prince nods again. Another man steps forward and mimics Al, saying, "Tom Bentworth. Permit me as well to help bring the Captain back."

"Dick Luther," the third prompts. "Permit me to bring the Captain back."

Ultimately, four men -- Al, Tom, Dick, and Stanley -- assemble for the task. The rest of the villagers watch, amazed, as the prince stands, back to what may be perhaps his most dangerous enemies, men deeply affected by the Captain's death. His voice is steady as he says, "I have shut my doors to all of you for far too long. No more."

Stepping forward, he holds out a hand, and an old woman takes it, shakes it. "I have rooms to spare," he tells them, stepping aside and repeating the gesture with a younger man. "I have feasts to end famine." He does not flinch when a strong man squeezes his hand hard without shaking it, moving on without remonstrance. "I have stables for your horses, and room for your wares. Fires for your feet, and stone walls for your storms."

As he makes each announcement, he shakes a different hand, until they are crowding around him, eager to interact with their young monarch. The prince does not tire, continuing, "I have maestros and bards to teach you songs." Shaking hands with a boy no older than eight, he adds, "Pianos and strings at your disposal." He accepts a two-handed clasp from an elderly man seated on a step, stating, "Doctors and medicine from faraway lands."

When the last among them has finally had a chance to clasp the prince's hand, the prince steps back to the center and finishes, "All of this, I have because of you." Shaking his head ruefully, he admits, "I have taken more than my fair share over the years. Permit me to return it in full."

Removing his blue cloak, he folds it over one arm and looks at them. "A great king," he prompts, "is a man who treats his servants well." He turns and looks over the hill at the small gathering. "My servants have treated me far more kindly than I have deserved. As recompense, I have offered them their freedom and compensation to see them happily to the end of their days."

Turning back to them, he says, "Most have chosen to stay in my employment. They seek bold adventures." With a smile, he shakes his head. "You, too, are my servants," he acknowledges, "and I would treat you more kindly than I have before."

A man steps forward from the crowd and bows. "We would be honored to serve a prince like that," he says simply.

Others echo the sentiment. With growing enthusiasm, the crowd cheers, and the hillside watchers see the prince enveloped in a friendly sea of humanity.

"Should we rescue him?" Iris asks dryly.

Cisco, astride Atropos, laughs. "Who would we be but selfish to ruin their fun?"

* * *

It is late in the afternoon by the time they have their affairs in partial order.

They buried the Captain, reacquired a fairly sizeable assortment of furniture, and shared teary reunions between friends and formerly lost servants. The castle is aglow with celebratory drinks and laughter and dozens of guests, never before even permitted to step into the foyer.

Most moving among the reunions occurs when Barry, tired but smiling, returns late that night. Cisco doesn't even notice the man, so subtle is he, until Barry clasps him by the shoulder and murmurs, "I have something for you."

Intrigued, Cisco follows his friend out the foyer. "Is it a song?" he asks hopefully. Barry smiles and says nothing. "A dance!" Cisco teases.

"Better," is all Barry says, pushing open the doors.

There's a closed black carriage nearby, and Cisco's heart begins to race as he looks at it. "Barry?" he asks, but Barry gives him a gentle nudge forward and Cisco, on nearly wooden legs, steps forward. He swallows hard and smiles nervously at the carriage driver, seated on his commanding step. Hartley salutes, carrying the reins of Clotho and Lachesis lightly. Stepping up to the door, Cisco's hand shakes as he reaches for the latch.

Gently drawing it open, tears trickle down his face as he stares at the man and woman inside. "Mama," he breathes. The word barely escapes him before she climbs outside and hugs him tightly; he clutches her back and sobs. "Oh, to see you again," he whispers, overcome. "I never thought it would happen!"

"Mama!" another voice joins in, and Dante rushes up to them, sweeping them both in a hug.

" _Mes fils_ ," she says, her eyes closed as she hugs them. "I have missed you."

"Oh, Mama," Cisco entreats, "it has been torture to be apart from you!"

"My _boys_ ," a deep, familiar voice sings. Dante breaks away to clamber inside the carriage and hug his father in the confined space. "Always enthusiastic," their father muses, patting Dante on the back. "Good to see you again, son, good to see you."

"Papa," Cisco says, holding his mother at arm's length, teary-eyed and smiling as he glances over at his father and brother. "Papa, you made it here."

"When the prince invites you to his castle, it is scarcely polite to refuse," his father replies, and Dante shuffles back out of the carriage.

"I have a second gift," Barry prompts. Cisco turns to see him pushing forward a strange two-wheeled chair. "My grandmother injured her back many years ago and we had it made to assist her as she attended the gardens. I nearly forgot we had it. It is not much use on stairs," he apologizes, "but it might be of use to you."

Unusually quiet, the Ramon brothers carefully lift their father from carriage to chair, letting him go once they are certain he is situated. Resting his hands on the wheels, their father gives himself a push forward, and the wheels turn, letting him. Another push, and another foot forward. On the cobbles, it is slow-going, and Dante steps behind the chair to push it, freeing his father of the taxing duty. Cisco and his mother follow behind them with baited breath, and the prince himself assists Dante in lifting the chair up the final steps.

They set the man down and Barry takes the door in hand, holding it open. Resting his hands on the wheel, Cisco's pushes himself forward, entering the grand hall under his own power. Holding a hand to her mouth, his mother whispers, "It is magnificent."

Cisco holds out his arm to her and she lets him walk her to the doors, pausing at the prince's side. Looking right at Barry, Cisco smiles, still a little teary, and introduces with great solemnity, "Mother, I would like you to meet Prince Barry."

The prince bows, and Cisco's mother curtseys. "It is my pleasure," she assures.

"We're happy to have you here," Barry says. "Thank you for coming. It is not a brief journey."

"No," Cisco's mother admits, "but it is a worthwhile one."

Together, mother and son step inside the foyer, following Dante and Cisco's father.

Outside, Dante lingers a moment longer to hug Barry with almost rib-breaking force. "I haven't seen them in five years," he confesses, voice thick. "Thank you."

Barry clasps his hand and insists, "Thank _you_. I would not be a man at all were it not for you. You made me human again."

Shaking his head, Dante murmurs, "I believe you mistake me." Nodding at the golden room full of people, he adds, "Your _Belle_ awaits."

* * *

It doesn't take long for him to find her.

Relatively speaking -- it's dusk when Iris turns to see Barry standing in the doorway, a shoulder against the threshold, an almost shy smile on his face. "I thought you liked balls," he says. "Yet here you are in the library."

Doing a little twirl in her new green dress, Iris indicates, "You inferred I liked balls. I never confirmed."

Flushing, Barry ducks his head. "Very well. I thought you might like to experience balls."

Sidling towards him, Iris enjoys watching the blush spread to his ears. "Why's that?" she asks, grabbing a corner of his white shirt and reeling him closer.

He shrugs, resting a hand on her waist, gently taking her other hand. Swaying, he admits, "Your father informs me that it is your birthday."

Iris blinks. "It's the twenty-fourth?"

Nodding, Barry glances at a clock on the hearth and adds, "For another four hours, anyway."

Swaying back and forth, Iris smiles. "By far, the most exciting I have ever had," she admits. Leaning her head against his chest, she adds, "I wouldn't mind a little _less_ excitement."

Gravely, Barry asks, "Should I tell Cindy to cancel the cassowary visit?"

"What," Iris dares ask, "is a cassowary?"

Barry laughs a little. "A bird larger than any bird has a right to be," he explains, "and very dangerous."

"Ah." Iris sways with him. "Perhaps," she says noncommittally. "It might eat the cake."

"Who said anything about cake?" Barry asks in a rumble she can feel.

Iris asks, "Is there not cake?"

Defeated, Barry admits, "Yes, there is cake."

Smiling, Iris pushes on his chest lightly, stepping back to look up at him. "We have many reasons to celebrate," she says, framing his face, scarcely believing it is _him_ , but those eyes, those blue-green eyes are utterly unmistakable. "Will one suffice?"

"I am certain Cisco has at least five prepared," Barry murmurs, and Iris laughs. "There's even a song."

Iris arches her eyebrows. "A song?" she repeats. "I may have heard it before."

"Have you?" Barry asks, feigning surprise. Humming a few notes of it, he adds, "He will be deeply disappointed."

"I'll act surprised," Iris assures.

Barry takes both her hands and squeezes them lightly. "I love you," he says sincerely.

She leans up on tiptoe to kiss him once. She's pretty sure she will never get tired of it. "I love you, too," she replies.

Together, away from the festivities, the prince sways with the provincial girl, and both feel they are the luckiest people alive.

* * *

"I didn't miss it, did I?" Eddie puffs, appearing just shy of midnight.

Iris laughs and steps away from Barry long enough to walk over to the good bookkeeper and hug him. "What are you doing here?" she asks, holding him at arm's length. "I thought you hated the woods."

"I do," he admits freely, reaching back into his bag. "But, you see, when I realized where you _were_ , I had no choice." Holding out a book, he adds, "Just got it in this morning."

Iris cradles the book to her chest and smiles. "Monsieur," she says, "a most marvelous gift."

He smiles happily, and Barry sidles over. "Oh," he greets, bowing to the prince. "Hello again."

Barry nods at the book. "You like to read, then?"

Eddie makes a so-so gesture. "I have read one chapter this week," he says proudly.

Barry's lips twitch in a smile. "One chapter? That's more than most read in a year."

Puffing up, Eddie proclaims, "I shall finish a _book_ in a year."

Rocking back on his heels, the prince leans forward and says, "Iris, may I share your entitlement with him?"

Iris smiles. "It's only fair," she adds, "since he has come all this way to present me with a new addition to it."

Eddie looks between them, eyebrows up. "Oh?"

Standing in the library minutes later, he gapes. "Wow," he breathes. "This is ... this is beyond my wildest dreams." Reaching out gently, he pulls a book off the chest and sniffs it. "Oh, these are old books," he croons. "What a wonderful life you live, my prince!"

Barry slings an affectionate arm around Iris' back and smiles. "A wonderful life, indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:  
>  _Mes fils_ = My sons.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends. We're here. This is the last chapter.
> 
> Thank you so much for joining me on this incredible journey. I have had a terrific time writing this story and am so glad I have been able to share that joy with you. I'm indescribably grateful for your support. You made it a treat to post every chapter.
> 
> (For the record: I started the first chapter on July 22, 2017, made slight modifications over the next three days, and finally published it on July 25, 2017. It is, therefore, my great pleasure to announce that this fic has been written in exactly one month.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this final installment of _For Who Could Ever Learn._

_Three years later._

* * *

"Look there, she goes, isn't she _dreamy_ ," Cisco sighs, resting his chin on his palms as he watches Cindy out in the yard, throwing sticks for _Houblon_. "Look there, she goes, isn't she great."

"How many verses is that now?" Barry asks, turning the page of his book, wedged into a corner of the room he could never have fit in as a beast but finds comforting as a man, knees pulled up to his chest.

"Two-hundred-and-seventy-three," Cisco says serenely, clearing his throat as he sings, "Look there, she goes, isn't she _lovely_."

"Look there, he goes, off to the clouds," Barry rejoins.

Sighing happily, Cisco says, "Cindy invented beauty."

"Did she now?" Barry asks without looking up.

"Kindness, too."

"Wit?"

"Of course. And charm."

"Extraordinary woman." Snapping his book shut, Barry pushes himself to his feet, stretching his arms over his head and grimacing. "Ah, my friend, I am not young enough to sit like a child."

"When did you ever act your age?" Cisco scoffs. Barry thwacks him on the back of his shoulder with the book. With a twinkle in his eye, Cisco begins, "Such strong--"

"Don't--"

" _Words_ ," Cisco guffaws, laughing.

Barry walks, shaking his head fondly. " _Au revoir_ , Cisco."

" _Au revoir, mon ami flou!_ "

* * *

The prince canters into town astride a familiar white mare.

A few people greet him in passing -- perfunctory _bonjours_ that he returns -- but no one makes much of a fuss about him. Dismounting, he leads Volo to the stalls and pays a boy to take care of her as he browses the market, filling a sack with foodstuffs.

At Cavell's stall, he lingers. " _Magnifique,_ " he tells the baker, snapping a fresh baguette in half and inhaling deeply. " _Magnifique._ "

Clasping Barry's hand with both of his, Cavell bows. "I am so glad you think so," he says, and though he tries to foist it on Barry for free Barry pays him the due silver, smiling. "You are too kind."

"And you are a friend. I wish to see you prosper."

To the bookkeeper he ventures, trading an apple for a conversation. They barter as they talk: Eddie offers up Iris' favorite wine for a few of Barry's book recommendations. Paying the winery a visit, Barry makes it back to a small cottage in town well before dusk. Knocking on the door, he asks, "Iris?"

"Come in," she replies, and he invites himself inside. Poring over sheets of parchment on the floor, she looks at him and brightens. "Oh, that smells lovely," she says, rising. Her blue-and-white dress suits her.

"What are you doing?" he asks, letting her take the bag.

She smiles sheepishly. "Promise not to laugh?"

He lifts both eyebrows. "I promise," he says. When she looks at him seriously, he adds, "I swear on my life I will not laugh."

"I was working on a story," she explains, "for children. So that they, too, might love reading as much as I do. I'm not -- I don't have the knack for fine literature, but I can tell simple stories--" She smiles up at him as he embraces her, asking, "What do you think?"

"I think you are the most remarkable woman in France," he replies, kissing her forehead. "And I am unworthy to call you my wife."

"I'm a woman with no title who married a prince," she reminds him, swaying in his arms. "Surely that qualifies me as unworthy."

Shaking his head, Barry says, "Princes do not deserve you."

"Is that why you ceded the crown?" Iris teases. "Were you frightened I might not marry you if you were still royal?"

Barry lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "When I was younger, all I wanted to be was a good king," Barry says. "My father was a great king. It was my life's purpose. But to even step into his shoes felt a tall order. I could never exceed him. And I never really wanted to be a good _king_ ; I wanted to be a good _man._ A good friend. A good father." Flushing, he adds, "Not that ... I didn't mean to imply I am unsatisfied with you and our situation -- I don't need children to be happy."

Iris squeezes his waist. "All I need to be happy," she says, "is you." Leaning up on tiptoe to kiss him, she adds softly, "But I would not be opposed to a bigger family."

Unable to resist a smile, Barry hugs her. "I love you."

"I love you, too." She steps back and tugs on his shirt. He follows her across the floor. "Do you regret it?"

Shaking his head, he admits, "I feel freer than I ever felt with all the money, all the power a man could ask for."

At the back door, Iris pauses to open it. They disappear down a little alley together, hand-in-hand, moving at a pace almost uncouth in its joy. She does a little twirl under his arm and Barry cannot stop smiling. "My mother is a wonderful queen," he tells her. "And the Ramons will make fine kings. Dante was born with a crown envisaged on his head." Smiling, he adds, "He will make the finest king France has ever seen."

She tugs him and he moves a little faster, nearly running. They cross the cobbles to the dirt path. Barry laughs and asks, "Where are we going?"

She doesn't respond, letting go and taking off. He huffs and tears after her. She's surprisingly quick, even for the fleet-footed prince. Perhaps a quarter-mile away, she crests a hill and pauses, looking back at him. He joins her and sweeps her into his arms. "Captured," he announces, out of breath and flushed with joy.

She holds onto his arms, intersected over her shoulders and across her chest. She rocks them back and forth, content. He savors the summer breeze and her presence. His heart beats fast, and he is sure every one is for her. "I love you," he tells her again, head on her shoulder.

She lifts his squeezes one of his hands. "I love you, too."

Nuzzling her shoulder, he confesses, "My mother and father -- at times, they seemed almost stupid in love. When he was a husband first and a king second. It was rare, but it was beautiful. I always wanted it." Smile pressed against her shoulder, he says, "I found it."

She reaches up to tangle a hand in his hair. "Flatterer," she muses, but there's only warmth in her voice. Letting go of him, she turns and says, "Your mother's approval certainly made the transition easier."

"Mother would support me nearly to the ends of the Earth," Barry says. "It's my father's reaction I cannot gauge."

Cocking her head at him, Iris asks, "What do you mean?"

"I cannot say if he would be disappointed or proud of me for surrendering the crown," he admits. It hurts a little. She reaches up again to cradle the back of his neck. Resting his forehead against hers, he closes his eyes for a moment.

"I'm proud of you," she tells him, stroking his hair. "And I am certain he would be, too."

Barry finds tears in his eyes, clearing his throat as he pulls back. "Don't make me cry," he warns. "We're dining with your father tonight. It's undignified to arrive in tears."

She shakes her head fondly at him, releasing the back of his neck and teasing, "What place does _dignity_ have in our lives?"

Barry grins. "Oh?" Letting go, he steps back, smiling wolfishly. "If that's the case..." Without another word, he takes off down the hill, out of sight of the village, his laughter just out of its reach as Iris tackles him at the base.

* * *

"Enough adventures for one lifetime?" Wally asks, scrubbing down the bar with a rag.

Jesse smiles, leaning against it. "Absolutely not," she says. " _Witches_ and enchanted horses? Castles and terrifying Beasts? I hope it all never ends."

"The Good Doctor Wells might be able to help you," Hartley pipes in, toasting them with a mug. "He's off to the Arctic and is looking for enthusiastic young hands to join him, help with the _science_. Cold does strange things to people. Some say there are snow monsters up there, Yetis twice the size of a man."

"Those are stories," Wally retorts.

Hartley arches his eyebrows. "Would you ever have believed in men turning into Beasts and enchanted roses before you'd seen them?"

Jesse brightens. "Where is the Good Doctor?"

Hartley casts a thumb over his shoulder at a smiling, spectacled man sitting at a table, engaged in a spirited conversation with a younger man. "The man next to him is Prince Julian Albert. He likes to finance exciting projects. The Good Doctor's reputation gets around."

"Sounds thrilling," Jesse says. "Wally, we should--"

Wally shakes his head. "What if _I_ become a Yeti?" he says. "And you a -- a sled, or something."

Jesse laughs. "Oh, wouldn't that be something?" she muses, undeterred. "Come on. When else will you get the opportunity to be _young_?"

"And foolish? Often."

Undeterred, Jesse strides confidently over to the table and says simply, "I would like to accompany you to the arctic."

Prince Julian lifts his eyebrows at her, but Doctor Harrison Wells merely smiles. "Are you certain? The North is unkind."

"She is far unkinder," Wally assures, stepping up. She looks at him and he hastens to explain, "I meant only to say she is -- fearsome, you know -- very tough for a woman. A person." Flustered, he rubs a hand down his face. "I honestly can't believe I'm saying this, but -- permit me to accompany you as well."

Wells nods once, and Prince Julian says slowly, "Surely, _surely_ , you're joking. They're children."

"I'm twenty-four," Wally scoffs.

"Twenty-two," Jesse admits, curtseying.

Julian looks at Wells expectantly, but the bright look doesn't falter. Sighing, Julian says with only a hint of forced regret, "Well, if this is ... how the die are cast, it would ... behoove our venture if I accompanied you." Then, brightening, he sits up and adds, "Father's going to kill me, but -- well, I have the perfect gear."

Wells claps him on the shoulder. "I could not be happier to hear this," he admits. "I promise you -- science is my second love, and humanity my first. I will call off the mission before any of you come to harm."

"Splendid," Jesse says, while Wally sighs. Looking over at Hartley, she asks, "Won't you come?"

Hartley shakes his head fervently. "I would rather muck the stalls than freeze my breeches off," he assures. "At least horses do not threaten to bite off my fingers as often as snow."

Jesse shrugs, undeterred, and pulls up a chair to the table. "My father owns this tavern," she adds, "financing the trip shouldn't be a problem. Persuading him to let me go will be more challenging, but he knows he cannot restrain me for long."

Wally pulls up a chair beside her, crowding Julian, but the prince merely accommodates him, a ferociously enthusiastic edge to his entire demeanor. "We will be conquerors," he says, pounding a fist on the table. "Adventurers. Explorers." Grinning, he adds, "Oh, this will be fun."

And, though it will be cold, and long, and at times harrowing, six months in the icebox in the North will only affirm Julian's prediction.

* * *

Dinner with Iris' father is always entertaining.

Mostly because Barry always says something that makes her father give him the patented _Bartholomew_ look.

Tonight, it's: "So ... Wally's ... your adopted son?"

Iris nudges Barry's foot under the table, but it's too late. Clearing his throat, Joe plants his elbows on the table and asks carefully, "You do realize I punched the last man to broach the conversation."

"You're so fatherly to him," he amends. "I merely -- wondered."

Shaking his head, Joe reaches up to rub his eyes. "Admittedly," he says slowly, "it has crossed my mind, these last three years." Eyebrows up, Iris stares at him. "I joined the army for nearly a decade. Francine -- my wife -- she knew what she was getting into, and she respected the potential difficulties of our relationship beautifully, even when I was gone for eight months or more." Clearing his throat, he adds with some difficulty, "Losing her was ... the single hardest thing I have ever endured."

"I'm very sorry," Barry says. His sincerity relaxes some of the tension in Iris' father's shoulders.

"It was unexpected," he says. "A strain of plague swept town while I was gone for a year-long assignment. Most of the villagers were of kin who had survived the plague and were immune, but Francine was a transplant, and succumbed." He brushes his mouth and Iris reaches over to lay a sympathetic hand on his arm.

"You were six," he tells her. "And -- Francine was pregnant when I left, but when I returned ... you were with a family friend, as our will declared, and I was told her baby was stillborn. The financial burden of raising two children is sometimes ... overwhelming, particularly for people of humble means. Orphanages were in fashion, and cheap." Shrugging a shoulder eloquently, he admits, "Paternity has crossed my mind."

Barry doesn't say anything, and even Iris cannot find words. "Father," she says at last, slow and almost disbelieving, "you do realize what an extraordinary coincidence it would be otherwise?"

"I have seen far more supernatural things," her father says, looking right at Barry. Barry deflects his gaze to the table, but her father's voice is exasperatedly fond as he adds, "I'm not mad at you." Barry dares to look up, and he repeats, "I'm not. I should be, as you have accused me of fathering a bastard orphan when I have done no such thing, but it has been three years. When you reach my age, that is simultaneously no time and a lifetime. I wish not to bear grudges for slights, and I further wish not to fight the truth, however improbable." Conclusively, he finishes, "I treat him as my son; what more would you ask?"

"Nothing," Barry assures. "Nothing more. You are an exemplary father." Taking a sip from his wine, he repeats softly, "You have raised a wonderful daughter."

Her father relaxes. "She is," he agrees. "The most wonderful daughter a man could ask for." Looking at Barry, he adds, "You make a wonderful son-in-law."

Barry's eyes mist. He looks down at his plate and a tear still slips past his hold. "Dammit," he mutters, and her father laughs.

Iris smiles at them, reaching an arm around Barry and giving his shoulders an affectionate squeeze.

From then on, dinner is warm, shared at the small table in her father's humble home, _Houblon_ occasionally trundling over to shove Barry's chair hard enough he nearly falls out of it.

As far as she's concerned, Iris wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

For their part, Caitlin and Ronnie spend a great deal of time with the Ramons at the castle, enjoying their parties as guests, offering their services when it comes to reconstructing the six-month-damaged castle. But they also strike out on their own, and it is in a larger village that they lose themselves, never more than a day's ride from some family, never more than three days' from distant friends.

On Iris' thirtieth birthday, they make the sojourn to the castle to celebrate. Dante and Cisco harmonize _Happy Birthday;_ Barry nearly drops the cake when _Houblon_ leaps up for it, holding it higher out of reach; a firework display turns truly exciting when one of the rockets zips back inside through the castle door and explodes in the foyer, empty but for a rather traumatized Hartley standing on the balcony of the first level.

("What should we bring her?" Ronnie asked Caitlin, a week prior to the party. Caitlin smiled, taking him to the market instead of responding.)

And so it is that they present Iris with a watch on her birthday, as a reminder of something dark before and brilliant after, night-and-day.

Iris laughs and hugs Caitlin and then Ronnie.

Theirs is a friendship that endures forever.

* * *

Linda attends her chickens for a time, but when they finally pass away, she leaves town.

Few know what becomes of the woman with three silver foxes at her heel, but some say she is magic, healing the sick, bringing rain to the parched. Others might have her burned at the stake for her unworldly interference. A select group know the truth about the witch and the three Fates, and smile at the rumors of her work.

She doesn't ever truly cross paths with them again, but they know of her, and her prosperity brings them joy.

* * *

There comes a time when Barry and Iris enter the empty ballroom on opposite sides of the grand staircase, once again in royal blues and sunflower yellows, respectively.

Golden sunlight pours into the room. A pianist plays a gentle tune from his corner. A quartet of the closest friends -- Cisco, Cindy, Caitlin, and Ronnie -- watch the couple meet. Barry holds out an arm; Iris lays her on top of his.

As they descend the staircase, the beloved Queen Nora sings.

" _Tale as old as time..._

_Tune as old as song._

_Bittersweet and strange,_

_Finding you can change,_

_Learning you were wrong._

On the floor, Barry bows; Iris curtseys. Taking up her hand and resting a hand at her waist, Barry sways with her, smiling softly.

Resting her head against his chest, Iris lets him lead, and Nora's voice carries clarion clear across the hall, underscoring every step, every pulse, every unceasing breath.

Briefly, Iris doesn't need to look to see that his smile mirrors hers: bright and hopeful and full of _love._ Waltzing across the floor with him, she finds tears in her eyes, and nothing but joy in her heart.

Softly, Nora closes:

" _Winter turns to spring._

_Famine turns to feast._

_Nature points the way,_

_Nothing left to say,_

_Beauty and the Beast._ "

**Author's Note:**

>  **MAIN CAST**  
>  Barry Allen = THE BEAST, _Prince Adam._  
>  Iris West = BELLE.  
> Joe West = MAURICE.  
> Cisco Ramon = THE CANDELABRA, _Lumière._  
>  Caitlin Snow = THE CLOCK, _Cogsworth._  
>  Hunter Zolomon = THE CAPTAIN, _Gaston._  
>  Hartley Rathaway = THE CAPTAIN'S SERVANT, _Le Fou._  
>  Linda Park = THE WITCH, _Agathe._  
>  Nora Allen = THE TEAPOT, _Mrs. Potts._  
>  Cindy Reynolds = THE FEATHER-DUSTER, _Plumette._  
>  Ronnie Raymond = THE WARDROBE, _Madame Armoire._  
>  Dante Ramon = THE GRAND PIANO, _Cadenza._
> 
>  **SUPPORTING CAST**  
>  Wally West = *NEW* _Tavern Worker._  
>  Jesse Quick = *NEW* _Daughter of Tavern Owner._  
>  Harrison Quick = *NEW* _Tavern Owner._  
>  Harrison Wells = *NEW* _Doctor, Hartley's Former Employer._  
>  Eddie Thawne = _Bookkeeper._  
>  Cavell = _Baker._  
>  Tom, Dick, and Stanley = *NEW* _Townsfolk._  
>  Albert Rothstein and Edward Slick = *NEW* _Hunter's Lackeys._  
>  Julian Albert = *NEW* _English Prince, mentioned._  
>  Henry Allen = *NEW* _French King, mentioned._  
>  Fred Chyre = *NEW* _French Knight, mentioned._
> 
>  **ANIMAL CAST**  
>  Houblon ("Hops")= THE FOOTSTOOL, _Bull Terrier mutt._  
>  Volo, Grey, Gilgamesh, Courir ("Run"), Unnamed Brown Pony, Unnamed Dapple Mare, and Unnamed Tan Stallion = THE HORSE(S), _Philippe and Co._  
>  Rouge ("Red"), Dent ("Tooth"), and Griffe ("Claw") = THE DIRE WOLVES, _equivalents of 'Savitar,' 'Reverb,' and 'Killer Frost,' respectively._  
>  Adelais = THE SHEEP.  
> Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos = THE FATES, _assume any form they please, including: chickens, horses, crows, dogs, and people._


End file.
